


Foxfire Blossom

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Affairs, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Cats and Kittens, Community: deancasbigbang, Cuddly Dean, Dean in Panties, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement and Marriage, Epic, False Identity, Florist Dean Winchester, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Holding Hands, Infidelity, Kissing Lessons, M/M, Painting, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wet & Messy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 283,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a narrow lane, right at the edge of San Francisco city, there is a boutique flower shop with a single employee named Dean. The place is Dean’s world; it’s tiny, filled with bright colour and sensational beauty, and it’s the only sanctuary he ever finds amidst the commotion of his new life. Then, there’s Castiel. From the first time he steps into the shop, Castiel can’t help but become deeply enchanted by what’s inside. However, it’s not just the flowers that keep him coming back - with each visit he makes, he grows fonder of the bespectacled florist, learning Dean’s hands and his laughter as Dean shows him how to romance a woman. There is nothing either of them can do to keep from falling in love, despite Castiel’s path already being paved, cemented, and thoroughly set in stone: he is supposed to marry Daphne. It becomes clear that they all have their vices, addictions. Castiel has kept things from Dean... and maybe Dean has a few secrets, too. What with all the lying, cheating, and dauntless emotional vulnerability, they may as well be living in a soap opera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cupid's Bow

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Characters in witness protection, characters with terminal illness ( _no_ major character death), off-screen death of minor characters. Mentions of substance abuse (including alcoholism, smoking, and past usage of various drugs), a small amount of violence, implied child abuse. Infidelity/adultery/polygamy (Cas is unhappily dating Daphne while falling for Dean). Other pairings include Sam/Sarah, Charlie/Gilda, Gabriel/Kali, and one brief instance of kissing between Gabriel/Kali/Gilda. Mentions of past Dean/unnamed characters and past Castiel/unnamed characters (male and female). Hand!kink, explicit sex: unsafe sex, desperation!kink/urolagnia, mild feederism, comeplay, rimming, spanking. Neither Dean nor Cas tops (frottage ahoy!), but there is a vague element of dom!Cas and sub!Dean (not always sexual). Contains spoilers for ‘Little Shop of Horrors’.
> 
>  
> 
> Art by the talented and lovely [unbearable-bear](http://unbearable-bear.tumblr.com). (Visit her [art masterpost](http://unbearablebears.livejournal.com/1273.html) to see the full size and send her a nice message!)
> 
> Betaing by [winglesschester](http://winglesschester.tumblr.com/), [yourewatchingnotnatural](http://yourewatchingnotnatural.tumblr.com/), [hellfirefury](http://hellfirefury.tumblr.com/), and [daringestdevil](http://daringestdevil.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **Full author's notes and acknowledgements on[the LJ masterpost!](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/24941.html)**
> 
> PDF coming soon! In the meantime, please make use of the AO3's download button!
> 
> **For clarification on the infidelity in this story, see[this post on tumblr](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/67740091388/mmk-so-im-super-excited-for-foxfire-blossom-and-i).**

✿

**foxfire** (fox·fire) _n._  
a phosphorescent glow, especially that produced by certain fungi found on rotting wood.

✿

Cupid’s Bow.

It seemed an apt name for a flower shop, of course.

As he strode up the slope that led to the shop, Emanuel kept his eye on the painted sign that stuck out over the brick path. People passed him by going the other direction; this lane was narrow, cordoned off from the main road by bollards, and pedestrians carried their boutique shopping bags over their arms as they chatted in the late-morning sunlight.

The flower shop was nestled between a sandwich shop and one that sold plush teddy bears. Its front was quite striking, and Emanuel paused to look at it before he went inside.

Behind the multicoloured array of blooms, the brown paint of the outer wall was faded by age, but even the crumbled pale spots around the glass added to its peculiar charm. The bursts of floral colour that escaped from its wide glass window were collected in bunches and buckets outside on the street.

The scattered palette looked out of place among the plainness of the other shops, but yes, Emanuel thought, this place was attractive.

He set a hand on the glass of the entrance door, and lifted a drooping strand of ivy out of his face as he pushed the door open. A bell tinkled above him, and a waft of warm, humid air rushed over his face and hands.

He’d been into florist’s shops before, but none of them had ever been this... well, _crowded_. His first thought was that whoever arranged this place must have been mad; plants and blooms of all shapes and girths surrounded the door - there couldn’t have been more than ten square feet of walking space in here. At least outside there was room to escape.

He barely registered the desk on his left, as he was preoccupied with the spray of orchids that loomed in his face as he stepped past, forced to duck an empty bird cage that trailed some sort of grass over his cheeks.

“May I help you, sir?” came a voice, and Emanuel was startled to notice the bespectacled gentleman perched behind the huge desk, his back to the shop window, ribbons and paper surrounding him like an explosion.

“Yes,” Emanuel said, eyes darting to a disaster of fresh roses whose scent met his awareness like a truck to the head. Barring the extremity of so many colours in such a small space, it was admittedly very cosy in here, but certainly not for the claustrophobic. “Yes, I’m looking for some flowers.”

The man behind the desk gave a wry grin. “Buddy, you’re in the right place.”

“Quite,” Emanuel agreed, glancing down at his shined dress shoes as they slipped on the terracotta tiles under his feet. Flower petals were spread like confetti, bruised from people walking on them.

“What kind of thing are you looking for?” the florist asked, sitting up a little straighter on his stool. “Birthday, wedding - we do arrangements, and we cater.” He smiled again, with a pleasant crinkle at edge of his mouth.

“I―” Emanuel cleared his throat, needing the time to think about what he actually needed. Flowers had just seemed like the obvious option. “I intend to woo a woman.”

The man behind the desk let out a soft cackle of laughter, eyes closing for a moment. Emanuel wasn’t sure what he’d said that was funny.

“Woo, huh?” the man said, his grin biting down into his lower lip. “All right, I can help you there. What’s your budget?”

“Budget?”

The florist stood up, his green apron straightening from where it had been crumpled. As he stepped out from the desk, he adjusted the thick frames of his glasses. “Flowers can get expensive,” he said, searching their surroundings for something appropriate. “A lot of work goes into making these babies.” He bent down, cupping his hand around the head of a sky-blue tulip.

“I’m willing to pay however much they cost,” Emanuel said, lifting his arms in a shrug. His trenchcoat flapped as he returned his hands to his sides.

“Gotcha.” The man stood up, turning towards Emanuel, but his eyes remained on the flowers as he dusted off his hands. “What is it exactly you want them to say? We got―” he paced to the bucket of roses, pulling out a single stem and turning to Emanuel, showing him the flower, “roses. True love. Red, in particular, is always good.”

Emanuel swallowed. “I don’t think it’s true love. At least not yet.”

“Workplace romance?”

Emanuel opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I barely know her.”

The florist’s smile pulled up one side of his mouth. “Ahh, _that_ sort of woo.”

“Excuse me?”

The florist ran his thick tongue over his lips, grinning again as he turned away, going for something pre-prepared nearer the front of the store. His hands dipped into the sunlight streaming through the window as he picked up a basket. “I won’t say it’s a God-given definite that she’ll go for you, but...”

Emanuel peered at the basket of flowers the florist offered him. He took a moment to view his name tag, which read ‘Dean’, in white painted letters.

“This is eight dollars,” Emanuel said plainly, seeing the handwritten label safety-pinned to the basket. “I thought you said it was expensive?”

Dean gaped like a fish for a moment, his hands wavering before he lowered the basket to his middle. “That’s for the nice ones. If you just want her to sleep with you―”

“No, I want to marry her.”

Dean’s face screwed up, his eyebrows descending and bumping his glasses. “And you barely know her?”

“I want to _get_ to know her,” Emanuel explained.

“Oh,” Dean said, rolling his head back as he apparently experienced an epiphany. “Well, in that case. You want to start small; a fresh bouquet maybe.” He wandered away, replacing the basket near the window. “Not roses. Try something in her favourite colour.”

Emanuel frowned, and when Dean met his eye, he shook his head. Emanuel knew so little about Daphne that he barely remembered what colour her hair was. He’d mostly heard stories from his own father, but Emanuel was certain the two of them would be as good together as his father insisted they would.

Dean sighed, patting a hand against the front desk. “Look, man, I’ll make you something now, if you want. You just pick something you like, and we’ll go from there.”

Emanuel nodded, and left his spot in the middle of the shop, heading for the orchids. “These,” he said, pointing. Dean tightened the ties on the back of his green apron as he came forward, then rolled up the sleeves on his plaid shirt.

Emanuel watched as Dean tugged out white blossoms, each time checking with Emanuel that he liked them. Dean then edged past, and Emanuel followed at his heel, curious to see what Dean would pick next.

So many beautiful types of flowers that Emanuel didn’t recognise were lifted from their buckets, and Dean went back to the desk to put them down gently, eyes always snapping back there to check the colours matched. He picked purple, a sprig of something bright orange added amongst the darker colours.

Emanuel liked how Dean’s hands moved. He was deft and quick, and always so gentle with the flowers; they were clearly precious to him. Every so often his glasses would slide down his nose, and he’d lift a forefinger to poke them back up by the bridge.

At last, Emanuel followed Dean back to the desk, and stood opposite him with his fingers hooked over the wooden ledge, watching Dean tug the flowers together. The florist’s gaze was intent, with a tiny frown between his eyebrows as he arranged the blooms.

“Hmm, you think this could do with some lichen?” he muttered, and Emanuel was as perplexed about the fact that a bunch of flowers could even _have_ lichen as he was that Dean was asking _him_. Thankfully, Dean answered his own question as he pulled a tuft of white stringy plants from an open box, and gave a satisfied smile as he completed the bouquet.

Emanuel kept his eyes on Dean’s hands as cellophane was rolled around the arrangement, followed by orange paper, followed by another layer of cellophane, each layer staggered so it created a tall jagged edge around the flowers.

“Good?” Dean asked, smiling hopefully.

“Yes,” Emanuel said, nodding once. “They’re very nice.”

Dean wore a smug smile as he began to tie ribbon around the bouquet. “Now, tell her to put them in water immediately, and cut the stems diagonally; they get more water that way.”

“Oh, I’m not seeing her until tomorrow,” Emanuel said.

Dean stopped tying ribbon, looking back at Emanuel with an unreadable expression. It took Emanuel a few seconds to gather that Dean was unhappy.

“You gotta give them to her fresh,” Dean said, his voice without inflection. “Nobody likes being given an arrangement that’s been left to sit dry for a day.” He looked back at the bouquet that lay cradled in his hands. “Guess I should take this apart again...”

“I can take these myself,” Emanuel added hurriedly, forcing up a smile that felt tense on his cheeks. “I can come back tomorrow.”

Dean brightened immediately. “Awesome. That’s fifty-five.”

“Fifty-five,” Emanuel echoed.

“Dollars,” Dean said. “Five tens and a five.”

Emanuel licked his lips as he slowly rounded his hand inside his coat for his wallet. “I see what you mean now. About expense.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah. Well, if you’d been clear up front about what you wanted―”

“I had no idea what I wanted,” Emanuel said, cutting over Dean. He looked him straight in the eye as he handed over his credit card. “You were very helpful, but―”

He looked away as Dean took the card, stopping his sentence before he made an argument of this.

“Look, I’m sorry, dude,” Dean said, scanning the card then handing it back along with the PIN machine, “but it’s not my job to read your mind.”

Emanuel barely looked at the machine, more focused on the piercing green-eyed stare that the florist gave him. With a sigh, he handed back the machine, took his card, and tucked his wallet into his coat.

“It is not of import,” Emanuel said at last, standing up straight and taking the bouquet as Dean handed it to him. “I’m sure all your other customers find you delightful.”

“Oh, they do,” Dean said, dryly. He gave Emanuel a firm, forced smile, then sat back down in his stool and picked up a book.

Emanuel stood there, wondering if Dean actually ever was this rude to anyone else; his book cover was now lifted between their faces, so Emanuel couldn’t see Dean at all.

“Good day,” Emanuel said, heading for the door.

“You too,” Dean called. Emanuel paused with his hand on the brass handle, surprised at the sudden change of tone.

Dean was leaning over the desk with his hands on its far edge, his book hanging loosely under his thumb, eyes set on Emanuel, a slight desperation in his face. “You have a good day too,” he said, more determined this time. There was an apology somewhere in there.

Emanuel’s smile came up easily. “I will. Thank you.”

He left the shop, and was blasted with the chilly, car-fume tainted air of outside, his hand still around the warm cellophane of the bouquet. Someone glanced at him as they walked past, their shoulder touching his side. It was like a different world out here, too open.

He began to walk home, the scent of flower blossoms still replicable in his mind. He stuck his nose in the bouquet, and vaguely wondered if Daphne would appreciate it as much as he did.

As soon as he got back to his apartment, he took the flowers to the kitchen and dug out a crystal vase, something he’d had for years but never used. Regretting the fact that he had to destroy Dean’s work, he undid the ribbon and unfolded the paper and cellophane, flattening it out on the empty benchtop. The flower stems made a little pile on the brushed steel as he clipped them to size, and he tried his hand at arranging them himself as he put them all into the vase.

Dean did it better. Emanuel’s arrangement was clumsy, but still, once he put the vase dead-centre of the oak table which sat in the cross of space between his living rooms, they added something to the apartment that Emanuel couldn’t quite place. It was as if the cosiness of the flower shop had graced his own home, and his blank walls and polished surfaces suddenly seemed more cheerful.

He stood there for a while, tilting his head at the arrangement, admiring it. He supposed Daphne would like something similar, since it was indeed stunning. Emanuel smiled; Dean’s care in choosing the flowers was easily visible.

He took one last peek at the flowers before he headed to bed that night. They seemed like personable company to him. For some reason, every time he passed them as he walked between his lounge and the kitchen, he didn’t think of Daphne, but of Dean.

The following morning came as sunny as the last, and Emanuel made his way for Cupid’s Bow an hour before lunch, on his way to Daphne’s house.

The hills of the sidewalks of San Francisco were easy under his feet, as he’d walked them so many times before. He knew this particular street well - he’d been passing by Cupid’s Bow for years, but only now did it hold any interest for him. The shop had merely been a curiosity, but now he knew what was inside, it was like a new part of the world was unlocked for him - even if it was only an extra ten cubic feet.

The bell tinkled exactly the same way as it had done the previous day, but the gust of humid air seemed sweeter this time. Walking outside had made Emanuel’s hands colder than he’d realised, and the unusual warmth of this place flooded him with instant heat, right down to his toes.

“Hey,” Dean said, looking up from his book. “Didn’t expect you to come back.”

Emanuel frowned. “I said I would.”

Dean gave an open-mouthed smile as he put down his book, not bothering with a bookmark. “Yeah. Well, I was kinda rude to you.”

Emanuel hadn’t even thought about that. Since leaving, he’d only thought about Dean’s hands, but he wasn’t prepared to admit as much. He looked down and away, heaving a breath.

“Do you know what you want this time?” Dean asked, edging out from behind the desk and automatically putting a hand up to stop a hanging glass jar from hitting his head. The jar hadn’t been there the previous day, but Dean seemed to be incredibly aware of things he wasn’t even looking at: as Emanuel silently indicated the orchids from yesterday, Dean edged around a wheelbarrow holding potted plants, and went straight for the orchids.

“Same thing as before, or...?”

Emanuel was distracted by the soft sweep of Dean’s thumb as he extracted the first orchid from the bucket, but gathered his thoughts as Dean looked back at him, waiting for an answer.

“Similar. But not the same.”

Dean smirked. “Didn’t like that other one so much?”

“No, I loved it,” Emanuel said at once. “But I don’t think Daphne should have the same thing as I have. She should have something new.”

Dean pursed his lips as he half-turned, nodding slightly. “Nice thought. You, uh, you got a message or something you want to put on a card? There’s blanks over by the till.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, and Emanuel looked to where he was indicating.

Emanuel located the blank cards on the front desk, the size of business cards. Some were decorated with a lacy frill, others printed. He picked out a simple one with a clipped texture around the edge, and found a pen.

He thought hard about a message, but given he knew so little about Daphne, he didn’t know what to compliment her on. He knew she was a stockbroker, as his father had mentioned it often. To invest their money together was the goal here, and Emanuel saw a positive future between the two of them.

“What’ve you got?” Dean asked, walking over with half the new bouquet in hand. “Unless it’s private, obviously.”

This time, Dean had picked fuschia flowers with sprigs of yellow, and he set them down on the desk before going to get some bare willow twigs. _Twigs_. It seemed a strange addition, but once Dean started grouping flowers, Emanuel realised the twigs added something to the aesthetics after all.

“Um,” he muttered, finally dragging his eyes off Dean’s fingers as they pulled at ribbons. He held up the card and read what he had written: “‘You are a very successful woman.’”

Dean was quiet for a second, then scoffed. “Dude.”

“Dude?”

“You need something better than that,” Dean grinned, shaking his head. “No offence, man, but if she’s successful, she already knows she’s successful. If you wanna get with her, she needs like - a, a...” Dean wafted his free hand, eyes wandering as he thought. “Hope. She needs to see a future with you. If you tell her she’s already at the top of her game, where’s the space for your companionship to improve her life?”

Emanuel lowered his chin, conceding that Dean had a point. “What should I tell her, then?”

“Most guys tell their ladies they’re beautiful,” Dean suggested.

“I don’t care about that,” Emanuel said, frowning.

“You don’t?” Dean started grinning again, tightening the pink ribbon with his eyes on Emanuel. “Well, that’s a first. Or - heh - are you just saying that?”

“No, I honestly don’t care. I’m sure Daphne _is_ beautiful, but her career and stature is what interests me.” Emanuel paused for a second, then gave a tiny shrug. “Or, at least it’s what interests my father.”

Dean was frozen again, in the exact same position he’d frozen in on the previous day, when Emanuel had told him he wasn’t seeing Daphne straight away.

“What?” Emanuel asked, unsure why Dean was staring at him so fiercely.

Dean poked his glasses further up his nose, then asked, “Is it some kind of arranged... marriage? Like, is your dad telling you to do it, and you’re just doing it ‘cause he said so?”

Emanuel flattened his lips, thinking about it. “I don’t think so?”

“You have _met_ Daphne before, right?” Dean gawped, then lowered his eyes. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. Just―” he pushed the bouquet towards Emanuel over the benchtop, “take this.”

“I’ve met her before,” Emanuel said. “She seems nice.” He handed Dean his credit card, meeting his gaze as their hands brushed. “I’m sure I can learn to love her.”

“Sure.” Dean handed Emanuel the PIN machine, sniffing quietly.

Emanuel waited until Dean was done and his wallet was back in his coat before he picked up the flowers. He stared at their colours for a while, admiring what looked like golden glitter, spread evenly over the petals. Dean must have sprayed it on while Emanuel was writing the card.

“I’ve never given anyone flowers before,” Emanuel mused.

Dean looked up. “No?”

Emanuel shook his head.

A smile rose very slowly on Dean’s lips. “You know how to do it?”

“Of course I do,” Emanuel said, taking the card that said ‘ _You are a very successful woman_ ’ and tucking it into the ribbon. “I arrive at her door, I hand her the flowers.”

“Sure, buddy. And then just watch her slam the door in your face.”

Emanuel looked at him, unsure if he was being serious. Daphne surely wouldn’t be ungrateful to be handed flowers.

Dean slumped his shoulders, rolling his eyes. “There’s a right way to do it, okay?” He slid out from behind the desk, unlooping his apron from over his head and throwing it over the front desk. “Flowers are like... hell, they’re the icebreaker in most situations. Your aunt’s cat gets run over, you take flowers, and bam, nobody’s gotta talk about Kitty and nobody starts crying.”

Dean smiled, like he expected Emanuel to be impressed by that anecdote.

Dean sighed again, rolling up his plaid shirtsleeves same way he did yesterday. His forearms were lightly tanned, almost free of hair, with a few freckles visible. Emanuel glanced from his arms to his face, which turned away as he picked up the bouquet from the table.

“Now―”

Dean interrupted himself, frowning at the ribbon. He put two fingers around the card Emanuel had written, then tossed it over his shoulder. He gave Emanuel a very stern look. “We’ll do that in a minute, but right now...”

He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and gave Emanuel the flowers. “Give them to me, pretend I’m - what was her name? - Daphne.”

Emanuel glanced at the bouquet, then handed them back to Dean in the same way he’d just been given them.

Dean’s jaw set, and he flicked his eyes to Emanuel’s very pointedly.

Emanuel retracted the flowers, blinked, then instead mimed knocking on a door. “Knock knock.”

Dean’s smile lit up his whole face. He curled his hands around an imaginary peephole in front of his face, calling out, “Who’s there?”

“Castiel,” Emanuel said.

He flushed hot as soon as he’d said it. That wasn’t his name, it had never been his name. Only _he_ called himself that. He liked it better, but he’d only used it when he was a child, playing the part of himself as well as another person. Being an only child let him create different versions of himself, and ‘Castiel’ had always been his favourite.

But it _wasn’t his name_.

Dean accepted it, and had already opened the invisible door. “Oh, hey, Cas,” he said, in a soft, feminine voice, so different to the gruff one Emanuel had gotten used to. Dean swayed his hips, looking at Emanuel through his eyelashes, which Emanuel was surprised to note were longer than those of any man or woman he’d ever met.

Emanuel stood slack-jawed for a second, caught off-guard by the way Dean was acting now. A muted smile was curving his near-red lips, the freckles on his cheeks visible in the fresh rise of sunlight that filtered into the stuffy room.

“Psst,” Dean hissed, frowning again. “Hand me the fucking flowers.”

Emanuel shoved the flowers into his chest, the backs of his fingers bumping the muscle that sat firm under Dean’s grey t-shirt.

Dean took the bouquet with a glower. He handed it back, and slammed the invisible door in Emanuel’s face.

“Did I do it wrong?” Emanuel asked, knowing full-well he’d failed.

Dean’s eyelashes fluttered as his gaze rolled up to the dark beams of the ceiling. He looked back at Emanuel again, and gestured a hand between them. He meant for Emanuel to begin again.

Emanuel took the cue, and knocked on the door. Dean opened it, hips swinging as he stood on the spot, twirling imaginary hair around a finger as he rested his wrist on his own shoulder.

“I... uh,” Emanuel said. “I bought you these. They’re for you.” He handed Dean the flowers, and Dean smiled this time.

“Better,” Dean told him. “Okay, I’m gonna tell you, because clearly you’re not already in the know: the key is to smile. You’re happy to see her. She makes you smile, so smile.”

Emanuel glanced down, realised he couldn’t see his own mouth, then looked back to Dean. Dean’s smile was handsome, and Emanuel tried to mimic it, feeling discomfort around his mouth.

Dean squinted at him, then shook his head. “I said smile, not poop.”

Emanuel stopped smiling immediately.

Dean ran his tongue over his lips, then nibbled on the lower one. “Hang on, I got a mirror here somewhere.” He rushed behind the front table, laying the flowers flat on its top, then bent down and opened a rough-sounding drawer. Emanuel couldn’t help but see the other man’s t-shirt ride up, exposing the lowest part of his back; his pale skin stood out well against his black belt and blue jeans.

Emanuel looked away at the very moment Dean stood up, sighing. “Got it.”

Emanuel put his hands in his pockets and fiddled with his thumbs, waiting until Dean was back in front of him. “Don’t you get other customers?” he inquired, eyeing the plastic handheld mirror that Dean was holding.

“We get a few people an hour,” Dean said, waggling the mirror. “You’re the first person I’ve seen since about nine,” he added. He lifted the mirror beside his face, tipping his head towards it. “Smile.”

Emanuel felt self-conscious, and didn’t smile.

Dean pouted. “C’mon, you gotta know what you look like. Practise.”

Emanuel shook his head. He didn’t want to.

Dean raised his eyebrows and put down the mirror. “Your loss.”

“How do _you_ smile?” Emanuel asked, stepping closer to Dean.

“What?” Dean chuckled, his eyes darting between each of Emanuel’s. “I just... smile.”

“What do you think about when you smile, then,” Emanuel amended.

“Happy things?” Dean shrugged slowly, his gaze roaming over Emanuel’s shoulders and face now. “When I talk to people? Come on, man, smiling is what people _do_.”

Emanuel squinted. “Not me.”

“You smiled yesterday, I remember it,” Dean said. “You were just heading out the door, and you just gave me this...” Dean’s eyes drifted, his own smile looking more pleasant by the second. “I dunno, you looked happy.”

Emanuel considered that. He also considered how bizarre Dean must think he was right now, talking about something people did so naturally. It wasn’t Emanuel’s own fault, he supposed. Maybe he’d just never been all that happy.

Dean licked his lips again, and met Emanuel’s eye completely. “Whatever made you smile yesterday, think about that when you see Daphne.”

Emanuel nodded. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Dean said, moving away. Only when he was gone did Emanuel realise they’d been standing very close, with less than a foot of space between them. The heat in the room had seemed _more_ before, and now Dean was back behind the desk, even the humidity seemed thin.

“Now, about that card,” Dean muttered, picking up a new blank one, the same kind as Emanuel had picked before. “Say something personal. Between you and her. Something that implies your intentions.”

“Like what?”

Dean puffed out a breath, handing Castiel a pen. “Try ‘ _With Love_ ’, and then your name. Castiel.” He smiled, and as he took the pen, Emanuel found himself smiling too.

“There!” Dean exclaimed, leaning over the desk. “There’s your smile, see!”

Emanuel glanced down again, but Dean got there first, and held up the mirror. Emanuel saw he was indeed smiling, and just at the sight of it, the shock made the smile fall.

Dean harrumphed and put down the mirror. “It was good while it lasted.”

Emanuel couldn’t look at Dean directly, for fear of letting him notice the startled tears pooling in his eyes. So he bent over the desk, and wrote out ‘ _With Love_ ’, then signed it ‘ _Emanuel_ ’.

“Let’s take a look,” Dean offered, holding out a hand.

“No,” Emanuel said, tugging the card out of Dean’s reach. He didn’t want Dean to see his real name. He liked keeping Castiel separate. Castiel was a man who smiled. Castiel liked Dean. _Emanuel_ liked Daphne.

Dean grunted and sat down on his stool.

Emanuel - _Castiel_ \- tucked the card under the ribbon, and picked up the bouquet.

“I think I might come back,” Castiel said. “To get more flowers.”

“You should come back to let me know how it goes with Daphne,” Dean muttered, nodding to himself as he thumbed at the edge of the table. “I mean, unless it’s out of your way.”

“It’s only around the corner from here,” Castiel said. “I could drop by on the way back.”

Dean smiled at the table. “Nice.”

“Why are you even interested?”

Dean shrugged, but used only his lower lip to do so. “A teacher should know when his pupil does good, right?”

Castiel smiled again, and it felt so good on his face that he reached to run his fingers over his lips. His hand smelt of blossom. He sighed as he dropped his hand again.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean said, kindly, meeting Castiel’s eye as he folded his arms on the desk. “You’re good-looking, she might be like all other humans and actually think that’s a plus.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched at the compliment. “Thank you.”

Dean nodded, and Castiel lowered his eyes and made his way to the door. He looked back once, wondering what to say, but found he didn’t have any words. Dean was smiling.

Castiel stepped out into the world, apologising to someone as he almost trod on their toes.

His breath came out in a cloud, the air biting on his skin, since the was sun hidden for now. Curling his free hand in his pocket, he headed for Daphne’s house.

There was a flight of stone steps between the top of this street and the next, and he jogged up the stairs, keeping his elbows in so he didn’t bump anyone. The flowers’ paper crinkled in his hand, and he tried to keep them steady, his eyes on them the whole way.

At the top of the steps, tall houses lined the road each side of him, all bordered in Victorian embellishments, painted in quiet colour schemes that complimented each other well. He headed for the left, already having the address memorised.

He came to Daphne’s house just as the sun peeked out from behind its cloud, and Castiel walked down the house’s open path, glancing to the pokey little tree which grew in the middle of the tiny yard. Its leaves were new; the weather had been warming recently, but the tiny buds on the tree were still sparse. Castiel supposed a lot of the flowers in Dean’s shop must have been grown inside a greenhouse, since they were surely out of season.

Climbing the stone steps, Castiel then stood his feet upon the doormat, looking down to see that it read ‘ _Welcome!_ ’.

He tried to smile, but the porch was shadowing him, and he felt cold again.

He knocked on the wooden door in any case, since there was no use in delaying just for the sake of a smile. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, he just wasn’t perfectly at ease.

A moment passed, and Castiel quickly glanced to the flowers. The card’s edge was resting against his thumb, and he could see how clearly it read ‘ _With Love, Emanuel_ ’. He grimaced internally; he didn’t love Daphne just yet, and he hated seeing his name written in his own hand. It seemed too much like an autograph. With a quick flick of his fingers, he removed the card and slid it into the pocket of his trenchcoat.

At that moment, the door cracked open, a stack of newspapers beside the door rustling at the draft. Daphne’s head poked out - a pale face, with wavy brown hair, and a sensible mouth that pulled upward at seeing Castiel.

Not Castiel. _Emanuel_.

“Heeey, great to see you,” Daphne said, opening the door a bit wider. She wore a plum-coloured top, and her nails were painted with a transparent polish, the tips white. “Emanuel, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Emanuel said.

He thought about what Dean told him. Smile, think about whatever it was he’d thought about when he’d smiled at Dean.

The smile lifted his cheeks when he realised what it was: Dean. Dean had made him smile.

He handed Daphne the bouquet, smile in place. “I got these for you. I hope you like them.”

Daphne’s grin broadened as she took the flowers, her hand touching Castiel’s as it was handed over. “Aww, they’re lovely. Would you like to come in? I’ll put some tea on. Or,” she added, throwing the word over her shoulder as she turned to go into the shadow of the house, “we have orange juice!”

Emanuel slid into the hallway, turning back to close the door behind him. “Juice sounds good, thank you.”

Daphne’s silhouette vanished around a far corner, past the window at the end of the hallway, which showed the view over another part of the city, lit by the sun but blotched over with moving clouds.

Emanuel walked to the end of the hall, pausing to admire the view for a little longer.

“Come through, won’t you?” Daphne called, and Emanuel heard clanking, then the thump of a cupboard door.

“Oh,” Emanuel said, as he entered the kitchen, seeing multiple pine-fronted cupboards. “Dean told me you should cut the stems diagonally.”

Daphne was already busy with a vase, and she nodded. “He’s quite right, whoever he is.”

“I bought the flowers from him,” Emanuel explained.

Daphne nodded again, turning to the refrigerator, which was pinned with colourful drawings and a few photographs. The people in the photos sparked Emanuel’s interest, and he shed his coat and hung it over an arm before stepping closer, keeping out of Daphne’s way after she handed him a glass of chilled juice and turned to fill a vase with water.

“Who is the girl in these photos?” Emanuel asked, gesturing towards the fridge.

“Hm?” Daphne glanced to the fridge, then to Emanuel, tucking her hair behind her ear. “That’s my daughter. Juliette.”

“That’s a lovely name,” Emanuel said, nodding. “She’s beautiful.”

Daphne smiled; Emanuel recognised now that people smiled when they were reminded of good things, people they felt affection for. It was probably ridiculous that it had taken the better part of thirty-nine years to work that out, but those thirty-eight-and-three-quarter years were not the most enlightening for him. He smiled too, just out of satisfaction at his new understanding.

“She’s at school at the moment,” Daphne said, meeting Emanuel’s eyes as she put the vase of flowers on the breakfast bar that Castiel was now resting his arm on. “Obviously. She’s twelve.”

Emanuel nodded, and caught Daphne’s quick smile as she turned around again.

“I’ve made us lasagne,” Daphne said, crouching down to open the oven door. A puff of steam rose out, and she wafted a hand uselessly until it cleared of its own accord. With an oven glove over her hand, she removed the baking dish and set it on the counter.

“It smells delicious,” Emanuel said, as the tang of spices and meat flooded his senses.

Daphne chuckled, and went to get plates.

Emanuel watched her hands, but while she moved determinedly, knowing exactly what to do and where everything was, her grace was not gentle. She clacked the plates as she carried them to the table, snapped the cutlery together as Emanuel watched her put them down.

“May I help?” he asked, tentatively.

Daphne chuckled again. “You just take a seat, I’ll have everything done in a tick.” She waved a beckoning hand to him, tucking her hair behind her ear again. Emanuel went forward, sat where she indicated.

The table was big enough for four people, but there were only two plates, since this was a private meal. The wooden chair was a little sticky where Emanuel tugged it to put himself closer to the table. He leaned back so Daphne could serve his food from his side, and smiled politely as she moved away to serve herself.

He didn’t enjoy feeling useless. Dean’s display was somehow different to this; the way Emanuel saw it, Daphne appeared to take no joy at all from doing things for Emanuel, and yet refused his offer of help. Dean had expected direction, but was perfectly happy to do the work himself whether Castiel helped him or not.

As Daphne sat down opposite Emanuel, she gave him a taut smile. It was businesslike, and Emanuel hadn’t really expected any different. As of yet, the two of them were nothing more than businesspeople, and this was theoretically a business lunch.

It became exactly that. They discussed the stock market as they ate, and Emanuel’s father’s business was brought up more than once.

Upon a sudden brainwave, Emanuel ventured asking, “How are you?”

When the reply consisted of only, “Oh, I’m fine,” with a smile, followed by “You?” Emanuel shrugged.

“I’m fine too.”

Daphne nodded, and the topic bounced back to recent declines in housing sales. Emanuel knew a lot on the subjects that they breached; he’d grown up in this world, and while he himself was technically unemployed, he was well-invested. His money was safe, and his future looked secure.

But no matter how sophisticated the conversation, he didn’t smile again.

The meal ended, Daphne took the dirty dishes away, and the conversation petered out rather abruptly. Emanuel stood, picked up his coat, thanked Daphne for a lovely food, and she showed him to the door.

“Do come again sometime,” Daphne said, nodding. “It was great to see you today.” She had one hand on the front door, one hand on Emanuel’s arm. “Maybe we could go out, instead.”

Emanuel agreed. “I’d like that.”

Daphne flustered for a second, then held out her hand. Emanuel took it, and they shook. With another smile, Daphne let Emanuel out onto the porch, and he took a few steps down the stairs, looking back once. She wriggled her fingers in a farewell, and then the door was closed.

Sighing, Emanuel clumped down the staircase, and began to walk back downhill, heading for Cupid’s Bow.

If he were to look at this situation through another man’s eyes, Daphne was acceptably attractive, Emanuel could see that. _Castiel_ didn’t like her so much - while she was pleasant, she was not someone who he would be comfortable kissing. At least not yet. He was sure that these things took time. This was the first instance where the two of them had been alone together, and it was certainly different than when they were in a room with Emanuel’s father, or with their combined business partners.

As he strolled down the street that led directly to Dean’s shop, he decided that what he really enjoyed about his date was the moments he’d thought about Dean.

He shouldn’t be comparing them. Daphne was a separate person to Dean, and it seemed, quite literally, as he stepped through the door of the flower shop, they were parts of different worlds.

“Hey,” Dean said, snapping his book shut. “How was it?”

“She shook my hand,” Castiel said. “As I left, she touched my arm, then shook my hand.” He knew that fact was too far from intimate, and unless he was prepared to change how he and Daphne greeted each other, their relationship would remain stale and distant. That was no way to build a marriage.

“What, the ‘ _With Love_ ’ on the card wasn’t obvious enough?”

Guiltily, Castiel slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew the ungifted card. He set it onto Dean’s table, fingers covering his name. Dean stared at it.

“You paid two bucks for that, Cas, I hope you think it was worth the waste,” he said, glancing up to meet Castiel’s eye.

“I find I’m of two minds,” Castiel said, curling his fingers on the edge of the card, then moving to replace it in his pocket. “On the one hand, I would like to spend time with her, but on the other, I’d rather not know her at all.”

Dean smirked. “That’s how I feel about my brother.” Castiel saw how the corners of Dean’s eyes crinkled at the mention.

Dean slid off his stool and walked around the desk. “I’m probably not the best person to ask for relationship advice, given I’ve properly dated, like, three people, but I’ll give you pointers, if you want ‘em.”

“Okay,” Castiel said. “What would you advise?”

Dean hummed, adjusting his glasses and looking Castiel up and down. “You could lose the flasher coat, for one thing. And maybe the suit. Who wears a suit to a date?!”

Castiel frowned. “What else would I wear?”

Dean gestured to his own plaid shirt and jeans behind the apron. “Wear what you usually wear. If you dress up, the other person’s just gonna have unrealistic expectations for what you look like. And that’s _normal_ people, not you, who apparently doesn’t care about that sort of thing.”

Castiel plucked at his coat lapel, then looked at Dean, staring up the inch or so between their heights. “I like my coat. And I don’t have anything other than suits.”

“What do you wear at home?”

Castiel squinted. “I take the jacket and tie off.”

Dean’s nostrils flared. “Christ.”

“Jesus has nothing to do with my attire.”

“No, I―” Dean turned around, blowing a disdainful raspberry. “If there was anyone in need of a whole-life makeover, it’s you.”

“My life is adequate,” Castiel said, slightly confused now. “I’m well-off; I have few responsibilities. I’m well-educated, and no loss has struck me or my family since my childhood.”

“But you don’t smile,” Dean replied, as if it were a conclusion. He sat heavily on his stool, sinking his cheek against the heel of his hand as he rested his elbow on the desk.

“I smiled when she took the flowers,” Castiel reasoned.

Dean hummed a note. “Well, that’s something.” He paused, then asked, “You, uh... Are you gonna take her out again?” 

Castiel took a second to envision himself and Daphne taking another meal together, but this time with someone else doing the work. “Yes, I think so,” he said, with a tiny sigh. “While today’s visit was... nice, I think both she and I would prefer to go out for a meal.”

“Is she a dinner-and-a-movie kind of chick?”

Castiel pressed his lips together in thought. “Perhaps it would depend on the kind of movie.”

Dean hummed and sat back, his eyes drifting to the potted pansies that sat humbly in a tray beside his elbow. “I mean, I know where _I_ would take her, but...”

“Where would you take her?”

Dean looked back at Castiel, but his smile had waned ever so slightly. “Conservatory of Flowers.”

Castiel chuckled. He could understand that.

“They’ve got a night exhibit on,” Dean continued. “On Thursday nights.” He lowered his eyes, nudging the corner of his glasses with a hand. Castiel almost thought he looked shy, as he added, “They’ve got... butterflies...”

“Has someone ever taken you there?” Castiel asked.

Dean shook his head, regretful. “I went with my brother, Sammy, but it’s not so much fun when you’re trying to look like you’re not enjoying yourself, you know?”

It was Castiel’s turn to shake his head. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

Dean flexed his jaw, eyes on the racks of plants that lined a wall off to the side. “It’s, uh...” He closed his mouth and sucked his lips between his teeth. Slowly, he rolled his eyes to meet Castiel’s, and finally spoke again. “You don’t usually see...” he gestured to himself, “ _guys_ , in this job. Floristry, or whatever. If men enjoy nature, they become gardeners or hunters or something.”

Then he shook his head, and Castiel frowned, unsure what this had to do with butterflies.

“Um,” Dean muttered, catching Castiel’s expression. “Okay, when I say ‘guys’, I mean straight guys. And then there’s butterflies―”

“Dean―”

“I’m just saying!” Dean shook his head, lifting a hand to quiet Castiel. “This isn’t the manliest of jobs. I’ve been working here, what, two months?” He shrugged, then huffed and slumped on the desk, weight on his forearms as he leaned towards Castiel. “Sam dragged me out to the Conservatory the first day we were in San Fran, and I thought it was gonna be shit, but then it wasn’t, and I... God, I don’t know. I decided to explore that little bit of fun I had.”

He pulled an apologetic smile, then poked his glasses up his nose again. “I started working here, Benny got me the job, and it turns out I really like it. What gives, I don’t know.”

Castiel squinted at Dean, slightly confused. “You’ve worked here two months on a whim? Aren’t florists meant to have a lot of training?”

Dean chuckled, his eyes never leaving the desk. “Let’s say I’m a spontaneous learner.”

“Well,” Castiel said, smiling gently, tilting his head so Dean’s low gaze caught his, “you’re very good at what you do.”

“I just have a quick hand,” Dean murmured, humility glowing on his face.

“I noticed.”

Dean lifted his head sharply, mouth open. Castiel swallowed and looked away, letting out a soft breath; it probably wouldn’t do to let Dean know how much Castiel had appreciated his hands.

Dean was quiet for a few seconds; Castiel only heard him swallow, but then he took a breath to say, “You know, I’m a little impressed, Cas.”

“With what?”

“That you didn’t ask. About me and... butterflies.”

Castiel’s middle pressed to the edge of the desk as he rested against it, but as he peered at the grain of the wood, he saw no explanation for what Dean meant.

Dean probably saw Castiel’s frown, because he laughed. “I mean my―”

“Your sexuality?” It clicked in Castiel’s mind, and he met Dean’s gaze with a startled look.

Dean grinned awkwardly. “Sure.”

“I don’t care about that,” Castiel said. “It’s your own business.”

Dean hurriedly shoved his glasses up his nose again. “No it’s not.”

When Castiel just stood there, Dean added, “Maybe you don’t care, but _I_ care. C’mon, you get to talk about Daphne, so why don’t I get to talk about―”

He seemed to draw a blank as he tried to finish his sentence, and his mouth rounded on nothing. “Well, if I’d ever dated a guy, I guess I’d stick his name there, but...”

He cleared his throat and blinked.

Castiel managed a small smile. “Consider it noted.”

Dean gave a forced, bashful grin, and turned his eyes down again. “Anyway, all I meant to say was that I think a trip to the Conservatory would make a great date.”

“I’m sure,” Castiel agreed. “I’ll see if Daphne is interested.”

“Where are you gonna take her to dinner?”

Castiel thought. He rarely went out for dinner himself, given that he liked take-out, and cooked for himself all the other days, unless he dined at his father’s estate. “Sushi?”

Dean made a considerative noise. “Try something more home-y. Sushi is a lunch date thing.”

“It would have to be a lunch date, given that Daphne’s daughter would need to be at school.”

Dean practically flinched. “She has a daughter?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. Twelve years of age.”

“Eeech,” Dean tutted, shifting in his seat. “I know that you ‘n me are both of fathering age, but dude, are you really okay with that?”

“With her having a child from a previous marriage?” Castiel scoffed under his breath. “Of course.”

Dean pouted. “That would freak me right out, man. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, but if you get with Daphne, that’s a pretty big commitment. It’s like insta-daddy.”

“Marriage sometimes comes with its bonuses,” Castiel said. “This time, it happens to be human offspring.”

Dean exploded in a laugh, a fine spray of spittle unexpectedly bursting from his mouth. He was still chuckling as he looked at Castiel, wiping his hand over his lips. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re like a literal flower child.”

Castiel stood up a little straighter, proud of the implication. “I will stand up for my beliefs.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, a definite smirk on his lips.

Castiel glared at him until Dean collapsed into another fit of laughter, rubbing a hand under the lens of his glasses to wipe away a tear.

“I fail to see what is funny,” Castiel said.

Dean wheezed, eyes still watering as he met his gaze. “Wow. Tag a ‘Captain’ on the end of that, and heck, you’d just make the perfect Mr. Spock.”

“I don’t... understand that reference,” Castiel said unsurely, watching Dean’s lips curl.

Dean shook his head, and lifted the hand mirror from before. Castiel glanced at it, and this time, he saw his own face and couldn’t help but crack a smile. He looked away again, but the smile remained.

Dean put the mirror down, and folded his arms on the desk. He looked satisfied, and Castiel perhaps shared some of that feeling.

“Take her to a place with a menu,” Dean said at last, dragging their conversation back on track. A slight smile still lifted the corner of his mouth. “Fill her up. Me, I work by my belly. If I’m full, I’m happy. If you’re the one that made me happy, I’m gonna love you.”

“You’re saying I should feed her,” Castiel said.

“Uh-huh. It’s symbolic or something. Be the provider.”

Castiel could still taste the tiramisu that Daphne had made for dessert. “She fed me, this time.”

Dean nodded, clearly understanding. “She’s a mom. She’s doing the ‘carer’ thing. If you really wanna be with her, you gotta fit into the family unit that’s already working there. She takes care of the kid, and maybe you don’t want to jump into that, so you have to care for _her_. It follows that she’ll see it as looking after the kid, if you look after Mrs. Mom.”

Castiel made a stack of mental notes, with the additional note that Dean seemed quite adept at giving wise advice, even if he said he hadn’t had much experience in the area.

The door to the shop swung open, bell chiming. A man with a wide-set nose entered along with a burst of cold, fresh air, and both Dean and Castiel nodded in reply to the man’s friendly greeting of “Good afternoon.”

The man edged past Castiel, his tailor-suited shoulder rustling a bunch of dangling flax leaves.

Castiel lowered his eyes, noticing that the petals on the floor from the previous day had been swept away. At a loss for anything else to mention to Dean, he said, “The flowers in my apartment were still wonderful this morning.”

“Good,” Dean said, putting a smug bounce in the word. “They’ll keep for a week or more if you take good care of them.”

“I don’t think I’m very good with plants,” Castiel admitted, snapping his gaze back to Dean’s sweet expression, hungry to see the way he smiled again. “At least with cut flowers, they’re doomed to wilt anyway.”

“Well, before you leave―” Dean scraped his stool back and stood up, “here.” He looked around himself, at the shelves to his left, then to the desk before him, eyes landing on the tray of pansies beside his hand.

Glancing to the other customer, who was now browsing silently, Dean wriggled one plant out of its stiff casing, and handed the black plastic square containing a flower over to Castiel.

Castiel took it in his palms, feeling how light it was, and seeing how the aura of the light in the shop made his hands reflect the yellow of the petals.

Dean made sure to catch Castiel’s eye before mouthing soundlessly, “ _It’s free._ ”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, appreciating the gift.

“So long as you don’t have a deadly black thumb, I think you can keep that one alive.”

Castiel nodded, hoping it was true. He felt an urge to give the plant a name, but immediately discarded the idea, since upon a moment’s reflection, it seemed silly.

Castiel cleared his throat, realising he’d been staring at the little plant in his hands for a good few seconds. When he looked up, he asked, “But what makes you think I’m leaving any time soon?”

Dean’s frown was brief, and it cleared as he sat back in his stool. He poked a casual finger towards the other customer, who was lifting flower stems from their buckets to look at them. Castiel looked to the man, then back to Dean. Castiel nodded in understanding. There could only be space for conversation when they were alone and Dean didn’t have business to attend to.

“In which case, I hope to see you soon.” Castiel’s smile somehow rose natural and easy this time, warming his face.

“You too, Cas,” Dean muttered, his eyes distracted by the other customer, but his voice was thick with honest feeling. He adjusted his glasses and shot Castiel a last, quick smile, before Castiel moved his feet and walked himself to the exit.

The air beyond the glass door poured itself against Castiel’s skin, clear and light. He stepped into the street with his hand curled around the small plant pot, and at once, he felt quite completely that he didn’t want to leave. He could have stayed in the shop for hours with Dean. However, he saw through the glass front of the shop that Dean’s determined hands had found themselves busy with tulips, and since Castiel wasn’t a customer, he ought not loiter.

The breeze fluttered the tails of his trenchcoat upward as he descended the slope, heading for the main road. He had no appointments for the rest of the day, and nobody to see, so he had nowhere to go but home.

The grit of the sidewalk pressed firmly into the soles of his shoes, and while he walked, he lost himself fantasising about the terracotta tiles of Cupid’s Bow sliding under his weight instead. Loose pebbles were not nearly as pleasant to walk over as loose petals.

The flatness of the main road shone golden in the light, and Castiel watched cars skim its surface, barely touching it. He walked with the thin crowd which was moving on both halves of the sidewalk, until finally the traffic slowed on the right, halting at a crossroad. He boarded the streetcar waiting at the front of the line of other vehicles, and he hung onto its brass pole with the hand that wasn’t holding his pansy. Tourists chatted on the tram benches, facing outward as the platform glided down the road on its tracks.

Castiel closed his eyes and let the early summer sun break warmth through the skin of his eyelids, turning the world the same red as Dean’s lips. Cupid’s Bow was warm and humid like the tropics, and with the sun swaying on his face now, Castiel could almost imagine himself back there.

When he’d been standing at the desk of the shop, facing the window, the world passed by outside; people walked, while he remained still. In that time, Dean encompassed everything about the world that was important.

It was so very strange, Castiel thought. Dean was just a _person_. Cupid’s Bow was just a _place_. And yet, they both made Castiel smile. Even at the recollection of them, he felt his lips pulling.

The glass fronts of the stores the streetcar passed all flashed with the daylight, catching the reflections of cars as they drove alongside the tramway. Castiel spared the journey about as much attention as usual; this route was familiar to him. The sound of the tram’s clanging bell practically blended into the background of San Francisco's lively streets; it only seemed like a dull echo of the bell in Dean’s shop.

When he neared his turning, Castiel handed his fare to a tourist rather than the conductor, as the conductor was too far along the moving platform for him to reach. He stepped off the tram and didn’t give a single glance back as he hopped up onto the sidewalk and continued onwards, heading straight for his apartment.

The plant in his hands felt precious. It was weak and young, and without Castiel’s care and protection, it would die. It couldn’t be too difficult to handle, he supposed. All it needed was water and sunlight, and it should stay happy. He watched his slim fingers hold onto it as he walked, surprised at his own tenderness.

The glass doors to his building slid open as he approached, the buffer of the air conditioner pushing his hair down against his ears for a split second. The second door parted and he entered the building’s marble foyer, his footsteps beginning to echo as he strode towards the far side of the high-ceilinged hall.

As he crossed the hall, people with suitcases or coffee cups glanced up, tipping heads towards him in greeting. He nodded in return. He knew all of their faces, aware they all knew who he was, and who his father was, but Castiel knew none of their names.

He pressed the button to call the elevator, then stood motionless as he waited.

Despite the cleanliness in this building, or perhaps because of it, when Castiel came back here he felt like he entered a stale environment. Nobody he spoke to had ever mentioned such a feeling, and so it seemed quite possible that he was alone in his discomfort, feeling an _emptiness_ when he was surrounded by open space.

His father certainly didn’t share this peculiar view, having purchased the entire block more than a decade ago and always speaking jovially of the fact, and of the sparseness of Castiel’s living area.

When he was alone in an elevator, Castiel rode the mirrored cabin up to the eighth floor, his eyes still on the plant. “You’ll be safe with me,” Castiel told it, softly. He didn’t know why, but he felt better for saying it. “I promise to keep you healthy.”

A smile rested gently on his face as he followed the hall to his apartment. His key clacked in the lock when he turned it, and the moment his door was closed behind him, he knew where his plant would like to live.

Halfway down the hall, he leaned on the oak wainscoting to undo his laces, carelessly kicking his shoes off. His socks slid on the polished floor as he walked, and he passed the lounge, the dining area, the gleaming, black-tiled kitchen, and finally came to the door of his bedroom.

Backing inside, he cooed quietly to his plant. “There’s a skylight, little one. You’ll get plenty of sun.”

He cleared his bedside table, no longer caring that his lamp had sat there for going on five years without so much as an inch of movement. One-handed, he shifted his stack of half-read books to his satin bedspread, then set his plant atop the hard wood of the nightstand, where it glowed in the sunlight, its green leaves turned proudly upwards.

“I’ll get you some water,” Castiel muttered to it, glancing back as he went for the kitchen. The pansy looked lonely all by itself, but Castiel reminded himself that it probably didn’t care. He shouldn’t feel sad that all the plant’s siblings were still at Dean’s shop. This plant had a home now.

As he fetched a small saucer and a cup of water from the kitchen, Castiel’s mind turned to the image of Dean holding out the pot, presenting Castiel with a small and dependent life. Dean wouldn’t have known that giving Castiel a plant would be such a powerful development for him. He’d never had something to care for like this. Not a pet, nor a sibling, nor himself. Everything he’d ever needed was given to him, and until now, he’d never been in want of a burden.

Perhaps small burdens were good. Caring for a plant was an easier task than caring for a twelve-year-old human child, but without anything to care for at all, Castiel’s hands would be idle. Castiel never liked having idle hands, despite having precisely that for much of his life.

He put his plant on the saucer, and tipped a gentle flow of water under its delicate leaves, only enough to dampen the soil. The shining pool of it lingered for a few seconds before draining down, soaking into the black mass that supported his adopted flower.

He smiled, contented. “Welcome home, little one.”

The flower shone a little brighter in the sunshine, he was sure of it.


	2. Some Lives Are Loud

Dean lit the end of a piece of uncooked spaghetti, tugging down the first glass jar and dipping the burning end inside. The wick of the tealight fritzed into flame, and Dean raised his arm, hanging the jar by its string onto a nail, pegged into the wooden beam of the shop’s ceiling.

He lit and hung eighteen jars, and with each new jar, the violet dusk in the room became warmer and more aromatic as the flowers’ perfumes were shifted in the air.

Benny backed into the glass door, making it tinkle with the sound of the bell as he carried a clay pot of leafy green specimens inside. He looked around the crowded shop, finding a place to set the pot. He grunted as he stood up, swinging the green apron over his head and folding it. He was done for the day, and Dean followed his lead, tossing his own apron over the wooden desk, which had been cleared so they could shut up shop.

“Can we eat now?” Dean asked, waving out the spaghetti’s singed end and tossing what remained of it back into the drawer, kicking it closed. It clattered, presumably the fault of the hand mirror sliding to the back.

Benny scratched his mousy bristles, lifting a paper bag from a stool and dumping it with a soft crackle onto the front desk. “Did you really have to make it look like a damned _date_?”

Dean pushed his glasses up his nose and looked closely at the jars surrounding the desk’s ceiling, admiring how they washed the walls in a luminous golden, lighting the petals of every plant, blending the purple of the night outside into a watery yellow against the glass. Dean shrugged. “I’d rather not eat by flashlight.”

Benny sneered at Dean as he handed him a wrapped burger from the bag. “We do have electric lights.”

“They ruin the mood.”

“There _is_ no mood.”

Dean sat down at the desk, shifting his stool with an almighty scrape so he was sitting with his middle pressed to the wood. He gave Benny a defiant glare, unwrapping his burger, quite aware that he had no comeback.

Benny sank his teeth into his own dinner, eyes staring out at the darkened street, looking past Dean’s shoulder. Dean sighed and tucked in, chewing as he wiped a dribble of sauce off his chin with the side of his hand.

“Sho how’sh th’ gang?” Dean inquired, still chewing.

Benny clucked, his eyes drifting upward. He swallowed before answering, “Marta had her first job interview today. Tilda’s pregnant. Elizabeth might be back into drug dealing, we’re following her out tomorrow night. Johnny bought a car. Uh,” he squinted, thinking. “Aw, hell, I can’t remember the other guy’s codename.”

Dean snorted, setting his burger down on its wrapper so he could suck ketchup off his forefinger. “It’s been two months, Benny. I think you could afford to let slip at least one of their real names. It’s not like I’m gonna sell their details to the mafia.”

Benny looked unconvinced, so Dean added, “C’mon man, I’ve been through enough shit. I’m staying off the radar. I’ve been codename Michael in every one of your stories, and I’m staying that way.” He pursed his lips. “I still hate that name, by the way.”

Benny cracked a wry grin. “All right, then, brother. But you’re still not getting anyone’s real name.”

Dean chuckled, taking another mouthful of meat pattie. “So what’s the old guy up to?”

“In jail, as of last week,” Benny sighed. “I should’ve checked on him earlier. He fell way, _way_ off the wagon.”

Dean pulled a face. “Eh, don’t sweat it. Not all of us are fully on board this WitSec thing when we start, y’know? Wasn’t your fault.”

Benny stared at his half-eaten burger, eyes drooping. Dean leaned over the desk and whacked him on the shoulder, reassuring him. Benny nodded and started eating once more.

“What about Madeline?”

Benny looked at Dean in surprise, his grey eyes piercing but ever warm. “My daughter?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. She doing okay?”

Benny didn’t look any less perplexed that Dean has showed any interest. “Yeah, she is. She joined a improvisation acting club, which I don’t really understand, but she’s...” Benny’s pale lips twitched up at the corners. “She seems to be enjoyin’ it.”

“Awesome.” Dean ducked his head and threw the last of his burger bun into his mouth, then grabbed the paper bag to see if there was any more.

“Why ask now, huh?” Benny asked, eyebrows raised. “You never asked about her before.”

“Yeah I did,” Dean rebutted, tossing the paper bag back to the desk when he found nothing but packets empty of fries. “You told me about her birthday party.”

“I told you, yeah. But you never asked.”

Dean lifted his shoulders, unconcerned about whether he did or didn’t ask. “I’m asking now.”

Benny hummed a note, finishing off his burger and picking at the wrapper, still staring at Dean. “What piqued your interest?”

Dean scowled at his friend. “Screw you, Benny, I’m just trying to make conversation.”

Benny crumped his burger wrapper and threw it at Dean. Dean did have reasons behind the question, but only now he took a few seconds to form the thoughts into words.

He slumped a little in his stool, its back legs rocking as he shifted his weight. “There was a guy who came in today - yesterday too, but he came back today.” Dean’s gaze drifted to the tray of pansies that sat in their containers on a shelf, moved out of the way of the desk. “Real nice guy. Weird, though. He’s dating someone.”

“And?”

Dean met Benny’s eye, then looked away again as he shrugged. “And the lady he’s dating has a daughter. Uh, twelve, I think. About the same age as Madeline.”

Benny nodded, folding his hairy arms and leaning on the desktop.

Dean puffed out a lungful of air and leaned forward too, running a fingertip through a scissor gauge that had long-ago scraped the wood. “I was just wondering what it’s like. I was thinking about it earlier, about dating someone with a kid. Like...” Dean shook his head, “man, how’d you even prepare for that? It’s not even the same as fathering your own baby. This one comes ready-made, with twelve years of hatred already harboured towards a new daddy.”

Benny gave a slow laugh, his pale hand tickling over his stubby beard. “I don’t know about your guy’s lady’s kid, but Madeline’s made it pretty clear that she wants a lady around the house.”

“Well, she’s twelve, she would,” Dean figured, grinning at the side wall, the only wall where no plants covered the white over with greenery. “That age is tricky, am I right?”

“All ages are tricky, brother.” Benny sounded wise now, and knowledgeable. “Kids are so easy to mess up, any time.”

Dean fiddled with the hinge of his glasses. His vision was still ghosting with recollections of Castiel’s deep blue eyes, lingering on the way his gaze had flicked between Dean’s eyes as the two of them looked at each other. Dean was unsure if he was alone in noticing how often they’d made eye contact. It seemed every second sentence that passed between them was punctuated by a gesture of a curious blink, or in the case of Castiel, _not_ blinking.

“Brother,” Benny said. Dean sniffed and looked up at him. Benny grinned, and his Louisiana accent pulled at his vowels as he said, “You look a little lost. Something playing on your mind?”

Dean pushed his lips together, not bothering to restrain his smile as he ran his sights across the fat blossoms that pushed in from all sides, unmoving in the trapped warmth.

“Just...” He licked his lips. Castiel’s awkward smile rose brightly, and either side of Dean’s lips burst into a grin, and he lowered his face, shaking his head. “That guy was real sweet, is all.”

“Not this again,” Benny groaned, turning around on his stool and pushing himself to his feet. “You’re gonna get another alias burned; you gotta _stop_ falling―”

“Hey!” Dean stood up too, snatching his green apron off the desk. “I ain’t in love just yet, you asshole. And he’s not a swindler like the rest of the guys, all right? He’s just...” Dean opened his mouth, giving a wide shrug and glaring flatly at Benny. “He’s just a guy. He bought flowers for his girlfriend. That’s all.”

Benny shoved an accusing finger in Dean’s direction. “Don’t make me use my taser.”

Dean snorted and shoved Benny as he walked past him, putting his apron back on as he went to the back of the shop, side-stepping the stationary wheelbarrow. “You sure that’s legal?”

“I’m the fuckin’ _sheriff_. You bet your _ass_ it’s legal.”

Dean smirked into the watering can he was filling. “You can’t tase me for having a crush, you bloodsucking bastard.”

“I can tase you for calling me names.”

Dean laughed in Benny’s face, whacking him on the back as he passed. He went to tip a ribbon of fresh water into the tulip bucket, still spinning the water in the can so the plant food dissolved.

“How’s Sam?” Benny asked, from somewhere behind Dean. “You ain’t talked about him for a while.”

Dean shrugged, pleased Benny had asked. He always felt like he spent every moment talking about Sam, so he’d been actively keeping quiet. “He’s good. More classes, more expenses. You know how it is.”

Benny sighed softly. “He’s gonna be a real asset someday.”

“Quit talking about him like he’s already the government’s property, all right?” Dean complained, turning on Benny and flicking water at him from his wet fingers. “He’s still got another year of his masters to do. And who knows. He might not end on the right side of this after all.”

Benny wrinkled his nose, his face following Dean as Dean edged around him, going from bucket to bucket like a pollinating bee. “I won’t let him drown in the world’s pool of shit, brother. _You_ won’t, and I won’t.” Benny moved to the front desk, ready to empty out the cash register.

“Yeah.” Dean gave a weak smile, cupping his hand around a particularly happy-looking bird-of-paradise. Its orange petals curled outward, like a preacher with his arms spread to the sky in prayer.

Dean sighed, turning back to Benny and handing him the flower, not willing to let it waste on someone less important to Dean.

“Sammy’s gonna be the best criminal defence lawyer the world has ever seen,” Dean said, determined as a freighter train.

He squeezed Benny’s arm as Benny took the flower from him, and swayed his gaze away to let Benny have a moment to sniff the flower. Dean knew how private flower-sniffing could be - at least, it was to him. Benny owned this shop, so Dean was fairly certain his love for flowers could be equally as splendid to him as Dean’s was. Dean never ventured to ask. What men wanted with their flowers was none of his business.

Except, apparently, when it came to Castiel.

Dean couldn’t help but smile again as he fluffed up the potted lavender. Castiel was all sorts of strange, and peculiarly innocent of how to excel at human interaction, but going by how warm Dean’s cheeks were now, maybe Castiel’s oddities added to his charm.

Dean was attracted. It was simple, and he didn’t need to talk himself out of it like Benny seemed to think he did. Dean already knew it was going nowhere: Castiel was dating someone, with intent to marry.

Dean’s smile fell. There was something _off_ about that plan. Castiel had shifted on his feet when the matter of _Daphne_ was breached, he lowered his eyes and he spoke quietly, forcing the words. He’d said it himself, as well: he wasn’t in this for the love, not until later.

Castiel waiting on falling in love with Daphne... it seemed like too much of a risk. Dean figured love should grant itself instant life, but take the time to grow. Like a seed into a flower.

If there was anything Dean wanted in a partner, it was the ability to make him laugh. Castiel perhaps didn’t have the same standard, since his smiles were... difficult.

The flowers under Dean’s hands rustled as he sorted them, fingertips smoothing over waxy pink petals. He sighed, moving away and putting the watering can back in its place. He’d refilled most buckets earlier, so now the finishing touches were all done.

Dean and Benny spent another few minutes in silence, lifting the glowing glass jars down and blowing out the tealight candles. The shop’s haze of blossom became drenched with the scent of candle smoke, which Dean breathed in. That smell always reminded him of birthday cakes, and he adored making those cakes just as much as he adored seeing them enjoyed by other people.

“You ready?” Benny asked, twirling his flower between his rounded fingers.

“Yep,” Dean said, throwing his apron across the desk beside Benny’s, then reaching over the desk with his belly flat to the cold surface, grabbing his keys from beside the now-empty till. “Gotcha.” He gave a nod to Benny, who opened the door and let Dean exit first, then followed, leaving the dark shop stuffed with flowers but empty of people.

The brick path outside sloped under Dean’s shoes, and he rocked back on his heels, feeling the warmth still falling from Benny’s shoulders as they stood side-by-side, Benny locking up the shop with a firm clack of keys.

The hand-painted ‘Closed’ sign covered the glass door at eye-height, blocking the view of the room beyond. Dean always missed the shop when he left. In so many ways it felt like home more than home did; calmer, peaceful in a way he never found anywhere else.

“I’ll come meet with you soon, brother,” Benny said, his voice lulling differently in the fresh air. He turned his face towards the street below, down the slope, the lights from car headlamps reflected in the blued-out whites of his eyes. “Was real good to see you today.”

Dean smirked, nudging his shoulder against Benny’s as they stood, neither of them moving on just yet. “You too, buddy. Thanks for the burger. I should eat there sometime, they cook their stuff just right.”

“It’s this place out in Union Square,” Benny said, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Nice staff. One lady gave me her number,” he chucked. “Can’t even believe it.”

“I’d say it’s your rugged good looks and the gun on your belt that did it, Sheriff,” Dean said with a wink. “Christ, you are just immune to your own charm, ain’t’cha?”

“What charm,” Benny said, voice flatter than the glass window he leaned against.

Dean just laughed, punching his friend in the shoulder one last time before wandering ahead, only going a few feet up the slope. “Go on, get home to Madeline. She probably misses her daddy.”

Benny inclined his head. “I’ll buy her dinner. And maybe give her this flower.”

“Sounds like a plan, Sheriff,” Dean nodded, then shoved his key into the door that led to his apartment. It sat snugly between Cupid’s Bow and the teddy bear shop, and for all the hassle Dean went through with security alarms, nobody ever noticed it was there.

“G’night, Benny.”

Benny pushed off the glass and turned towards the road, his flower in hand and spread fingers over his shoulder to wave to Dean. “‘Night, brother.”

Dean closed the door between them, shutting himself into the dark. He climbed the stairs easily, not a foot out of place as he heard his boots clump on the old wood. Twenty clumps, then he stuck his key into the single speck of light that was the keyhole to his apartment, but found it was already unlocked.

Warmth spilled over his boots as he stepped inside onto the bare floorboards. The glass wall on the left was shrouded in the darkening blue of the horizon beyond the rooftops, and the lights in the apartment were already on, the wood burner on the left doing its best to heat the open space.

“Anyone home?” Dean called out, turning to close the door.

“Me,” came a feminine voice, and Dean had to walk a few steps forward to see into the kitchen, peering around the blocky island but seeing nobody. He heard a clank of a pot, then a head of wavy black hair rose from beside a cupboard.

“Hey, Sarah,” Dean muttered, throwing his boots into the haphazard pile of random shoes that littered the right side of the door. “Sammy home?”

“He’ll be home in―” Sarah glanced to the clock on the wall behind Dean, “twenty minutes.” She smiled, then set the saucepan she held onto the stovetop. “Gabriel’s not working too late tonight, he left a message saying something about Kali and stilettos.”

Dean chuckled, going to rest his folded arms over the bar top, which bordered the half of the kitchen closer to the rest of the apartment. “How are you?”

Sarah glanced at him, ripping the side of a packet of pasta into the pan as she did. “Good? Why?”

Dean frowned. “Why is everyone so concerned about why I care about them?”

Sarah shot Dean an amused smirk.

The door to the apartment swung open, and Dean turned around to see a mess of red hair stride inside. Charlie puffed out a breath as she ran a clawed hand back through her hair, shedding her pea coat and tossing it to Dean. He caught it effortlessly, going to drape it over the back of the long couch as Charlie unlaced her boots.

“You staying for dinner, then?”

Charlie glanced up at Dean’s question. “Has the time finally come when I’m not welcome?”

“That’s next week,” Dean muttered with a grin, rolling up his sleeves as he went to join Sarah in the kitchen. He washed his hands, scrubbing the nail brush under his fingers, scraping out the tinge of plant-stem green that always left a line under the white. “You good for pasta tonight?”

Charlie shrugged, going to roast her bare feet beside the wood burner. “If it has tuna fish.”

“That’s fucked up,” Dean said. “That doesn’t go together.”

“ _You’re_ fucked up.”

Dean pouted.

Sarah laughed, grabbing Dean by the elbow and pulling him to the stove. “You do this. My feet are killing me, I was in A-’n-E all freaking day.”

“Your job is some sort of physical torture, isn’t it? I should have Benny look into it,” Dean told her, taking a spoon and prodding the simmering water that only just covered the pasta.

“Nope, that’s just the life of a nurse.” Sarah went to stand behind Charlie, resting her forehead between the other woman’s shoulder blades. “One day, Dean, you’ll do a real day of hard work. Then you’ll know what pain feels like.”

“Hey, lady, I’ve done hard work,” Dean snapped, speaking over the bubbling fury of now-boiling water. “I catered a wedding once.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“What, like you were there?”

Charlie sniggered, turning around to drag Sarah to the sofa, then sitting behind her and moving her hands to massage Sarah’s shoulders. Dean rested his ass on the kitchen cupboards, watching the backs of their heads.

He smirked, folding his arms and taking in a breath. “It was a nice wedding. You should do it again sometime. I think Charlie would be up for it.”

“Sadly,” Sarah said, “I can only marry one of your siblings, Dean. I’m sure if Sam was willing to give up his rightful place as husband, then, sure.”

Charlie snorted. “Puh, like I’d marry you anyway,” she said to Sarah. “You leave your hair in the shower.”

“I _clean_ hair out of the shower,” Sarah replied. “Mostly Gabriel’s.”

Dean barked out a short laugh. “I pluck Sammy’s hair out of the goddamn _sink_. We should just accept it: we live in a house of shedders.”

Sarah and Charlie both turned their heads to stare at Dean, smiles on their lips.

Dean thought that was terribly creepy, and he stood up straight, unfolding his arms in discomfort, bracing for something severely shocking. He knew these women, and he knew that look. It was the look of bad news a-coming.

“What,” he said, his voice as free of tremor as possible.

Sarah stood up, tugging her arms behind her shoulders and letting the joints pop. Dean kept on staring as she wandered around the couch, eyes on Dean. Charlie followed.

“Seriously, just tell me,” Dean implored. “What’s happening?

Sarah went into Dean’s room, and Dean panicked. He rushed to the edge of the kitchen, hanging off the bar top as he rounded the corner. His feet skidded on the unpolished floor, and the heels of his socks turned to the tops of his feet, weirdly cold.

Charlie blocked his path. Dean gaped at her, hands open in demanding. He wanted answers _now_.

“So, don’t freak out or anything,” Sarah said, her voice quieted by the wall between where Dean stood and his bed. He heard her footsteps. “But my friend Ruby had to go on an immediate vacation.”

Dean fidgeted, trying to edge around Charlie, but she stood in his way, a calming hand pushing to his chest.

“And I offered... c’mere, baby, it’s okay―”

Dean watched Sarah exit his bedroom, something white cradled in her arms.

“So I offered to look after this little guy.” She finished with a smile. “He won’t be any trouble, Dean.”

Dean froze on the spot as he made eye contact with the white thing. Its yellow eyes were slitted with black, its face pointed and blotched with something that looked, at the very least, slightly infected.

“What the hell is that,” Dean intoned.

“His name’s Lucifer,” Sarah said. She beamed at him, tucking her hair behind her ears as Charlie lifted the cat out of her arms, tutting to it.

“Lucifer.” Dean sucked the back of his lips, trying to stay calm. “Your friend Ruby’s the one who got busted for doing coke at work, right? Why does this not surprise me?”

“He’s a real sweetheart,” Charlie insisted, stepping closer to Dean. “Honestly. And he’s house trained.”

“Where’s the litter box?” Dean asked, hurriedly. If it was in his bedroom, he might just need to call Benny and ask if he could borrow his gun.

“Bathroom.”

Dean let out a sigh of relief.

Charlie stepped forward again, trying to offer Dean the quiet animal. Dean backed away, already feeling his nose tickling. “Oh-ho-ho, _no_ ,” he said, quite firmly. “I’m not touching it. It’s got rabies or something.”

“It’s just a skin irritation, it’s harmless,” Sarah said, resting her head against Charlie’s shoulder as each of them fondled one of the cat’s ears.

Dean was distracted by the pasta as it boiled over, and he hurried back to turn the stove down, then dipped his arms into the storage cupboard to find pasta sauce. And tuna, of all things.

He didn’t look at either woman again for the entirety of the time he spent preparing dinner. It wasn’t that he hated cats, he was just allergic. And... okay, maybe a little scared of them. They were hissy and bitey and they peed on things. Besides that, he wasn’t a fan of anything with claws.

He prepared enough food for five people, tipping in a can of corn just to make the meal go further. He was a master of feeding the masses, and he was at least pleased that such a gift didn’t come with the downside of bad taste. Making food rich with exquisite flavour was something that transpired naturally with him.

Once he was done, he left the food in the pan, a dish of chopped and pitted olives sitting ready at the side to use as a garnish. His mouth was already watering at the smell of it, and he refrained from tasting anything, just so they could all enjoy it together when everyone else was home. He grated some cheddar cheese as a finishing touch, setting the tiny green bowl neatly next to the olives.

He wasn’t a chef, and he didn’t want to be. But making things for other people, giving them what he could... yeah, that made him feel like a hero. Even if all he gave was a flower that Benny technically already owned.

Dusting off his hands, rubbing cheese residue off his fingertips, Dean yawned and headed for the bathroom. Sarah and Charlie sat on the couch watching the eight o’clock news bulletin, both petting the cat, who lay sprawled between them.

Sam would be home in a few minutes, and Dean intended to be out of the shower by then, because Sam was always very insistent about washing himself up as soon as he got home.

Dean locked the bathroom door, having been walked in on ten too many times. Shower time was private time.

Hot water was a blessing in this apartment. Sure, they had their own water tower, courtesy of Divine Power Inc., but after five people had had their fill, getting the luxury of standing there and getting his seven minutes in Heaven was something that didn’t happen often.

He managed it this time. He sighed his pleasure into the rush of pouring water, his hand making firm and tight strokes along his cock, body and soul relaxing under every squeeze of his fist. With a grunt of finality, he washed the evidence off the tiled wall.

(Nobody would ever know he peed in the shower afterwards. It saved flushing the toilet, in any case. Well, at least, that was what he kept telling himself.)

He rinsed down then dried off, scrubbing his fresh towel over his hair until his ears burned. He replaced his steamed-up glasses on his nose, then blindly wrote rude messages for Sam across the mirror. With the towel around his waist, he threw his day clothes into the laundry hamper and strode out into the living area.

Sam was home, and he was laughing. Charlie looked somewhat put-out, but Sarah’s bare feet were sticking straight up in the air, clearly having fallen over the back of the couch in a fit of laughter.

“What now?” Dean asked, his vision becoming clear as his glasses de-steamed. Charlie snorted as she saw Dean, then turned away, hiding her amused expression.

Dean followed everyone’s line of sight, pacing across the room to see into the kitchen.

Lucifer’s butt was flat to the kitchen work surface, his long pink tongue lapping at one of his nasty white paws. His yellow eyes bored into Dean’s soul as Dean saw the mess of red across the kitchen top.

Blood?

No, pasta sauce. The tuna seemed noticeably absent. As did the cheese. The olives, however, went untouched.

“You little fucker,” Dean said to the cat, not daring to get any closer in case the monster ate him, too. “You’re number one on my hit list, my friend.”

The front door burst open, and three bodies fell inside, one of whom was golden-haired, short, pudgy, and kissing enthusiastically.

“Hey, Gabriel,” Sam said, wrapping his arm around Sarah’s waist. “Busy tonight?”

Gabriel’s mouth unlatched from Kali’s red lips, and that same mouth turned towards Sam with a disgusting smile pasted across it. “You betcha.”

Kali’s mouth then attached itself to that of another woman’s, who in turn twisted her hand into Gabriel’s hair and brought his face closer so she could make out with him.

Dean stood there in lingering distaste as the trio turned like a very slow and very high-heeled washing machine across the living room, hands and clothes going in places high and low. Dean saw at least one boob.

Their audience observed in silence, hearing heels and lips and seeing the twist of black suit jackets. A bow tie fell discarded onto the floor. Then Gabriel’s bedroom door shut, and the sound of bed springs creaked around the apartment for a few seconds. Then a moan happened.

“Christ,” Dean tutted. “When’s Gabe going to realise Kali only does the threesome thing so she gets to see him outside of work? He’s a fucking idiot.”

“Dean, put some clothes on,” Sam said, heading for the newly-vacated bathroom. “You’re gonna poke someone’s eye out.”

Dean glanced at his nipples. “Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Sam gave Dean the finger and slammed the bathroom door.

Dean sighed, side-eyeing the demon that sat smugly beside the olives, no doubt shedding on them. “Who wants take-out?”

“I’ll order pizza,” Charlie said, heading for the landline extension beside the front door. “It’s my turn to buy anyway.”

Dean took his towel off before he was even at his bedroom, feeling the waft of cold air on his bare ass. With the light flicked on, he groaned at the obvious spread of white cat hair settled over everything in the room, even his pillow.

“New rule!” he bellowed, as he yanked open his wardrobe and pulled out a clean pair of jeans and a grey henley. “No fucking animals in my room, you got it?”

“Got it!” Charlie and Sarah called back together.

Dean did up his jeans while exiting his room, elbowing off the light.

“Oh, so _that’s_ why I never find any of your underwear to wash,” Sarah muttered, staring at Dean as he pulled on his henley, one sleeve at a time. “Do you go commando every day? Or do you wear underwear on special occasions?”

Dean snorted, trudging towards the cat. “Only when it matters.”

Sarah followed Dean into the messy kitchen. “Dean.” She spoke quietly now that Charlie was on the phone with the nearest pizza place. “I was the one who brought Lucifer in here, I should clean up after him.”

“Damn right you should,” Dean growled, folding his arms and watching Sarah pick her way barefooted over the splashes of sauce on the floor tiles. “That thing’s a friggin’ menace. How long is it supposed to be living with us?”

Sarah shrugged, picking Lucifer up by his fluff, which was more or less all of him. “Two weeks.”

“Is that a regular two weeks, or a _Money Pit_ kind of two weeks?”

Sarah raised her dainty eyebrows, her gaze set on Lucifer’s button nose. “Let’s hope it’s the former. He’s sweet, but mischievous.” She turned her voice to a cutesy, rounded tone, and cooed at the cat, “You’re a tiny little devil cat, aren’t you? Aren’t yooou?”

Lucifer mewled.

“Get that thing out of my kitchen,” Dean said, reaching for a cloth to wipe up the mess. “No cats in the kitchen _or_ the bedroom. Or I’ll start laying traps.”

✿

Castiel sat quietly on the couch.

The horse racing channel was presenting nothing but reruns, and Castiel’s father’s horses weren’t even in these races. He flipped off the screen and stared at the black rectangle, listening to the sound of the clock as it took it upon itself to fill the spacious silence.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Castiel leaned back into the leather, sliding down its plush cushion until his socks rode up around his ankles, toes straining the black cotton.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Darkness had fallen, and the curtains were still open. The cleaner had come and gone without a word. Castiel didn’t even feel like painting.

This was a typical Friday night for him.

He tugged his iPhone out of the pocket of his slacks, unlocking it with a swipe of his fingers. He scrolled the contacts, pausing on his father’s name. No, he probably didn’t want to talk. He scrolled on. He paused on Meg’s name. She was probably busy.

He scrolled back to Daphne’s name. The contact read _Daphne Allen **home**_.

Allen. Daphne Allen.

Allen, Daphne.

Castiel had no idea what she did on a Friday night. She had a daughter, so she must be home. Perhaps she was busy as well. He decided to try calling anyway.

He dialled.

Ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.

“ _Allen residence, Daphne speaking._ ”

“Uh― h- hello.”

“ _Emanuel?_ ”

Castiel leaned forward on the couch, feeling a twinge of shock at being addressed by that name. He’d been comfortably in the mindset of ‘Castiel’ all afternoon since seeing Dean. And now, he was Emanuel.

“Hello,” Emanuel said again.

“ _Uh, was there something you called for?_ ”

“Yes. No.” Emanuel studied his socks. “Are you doing anything?”

“ _I’m―_ ” Emanuel heard the rustle of clothing and the creak of the phone being pressed to an ear. “ _Making dinner._ ”

“Oh.” Emanuel rubbed his toes together. “I suppose this is a bad time.”

“ _Was there something you needed?_ ”

Emanuel took in a slow breath. He didn’t need anything. He _wanted_ things - he wanted to talk, to practice smiling at someone, maybe play a board game. He wanted to watch a movie, or bet on a horse with no prior knowledge of their breeding or rider. He wanted a hug, maybe.

“No, nothing, I just called to say hello.”

“ _Oh. Okay then._ ”

Emanuel watched the second hand moving around the brushed steel clock face ahead of him, reflections off the hands casting halos across the far walls.

“ _Emanuel―_ ” A heavy thump came from the phone’s speaker, then the hiss of running water. “ _Look, I honestly don’t mean to be rude or anything, but if there’s something you want to talk about...?_ ”

“Nothing in particular.”

“ _In that case, honey, I really―_ ” Another thump, then the clatter of plates. Then a small laugh. “ _Great, I’m going to drop the phone. I need to get a hands-free._ ”

“Yes.” Emanuel thumbed the material of his slacks, pinching it at his knee.

“ _JUU-ULES! DINNER’S READY!_ ”

Emanuel winced and wrenched his ear away from the crackling speaker, frowning at the buzz in his eardrum.

“ _Sorry - oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I was calling my daughter. She’s doing her homework._ ”

“It’s all right. This isn’t a good time.” Emanuel swallowed. “I hope you have a good meal.”

“ _Aw, thank you._ ”

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

“ _Okay. See you. Bye._ ”

The phone call ended, and Castiel sat there for a few seconds, listening to the incessant and rhythmic beeping on the now-dead line.

He slumped the phone into his lap, watching it blank into standby.

For the first time, he could put a name to the hollow pit in his gut, and the darkness that curled like a tired viper between his bones.

Lonely.

The quiet, empty room breathed a sigh, and only when the sound echoed did Castiel realise it was the sound of his own sadness.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

✿

The slices of pizza barely left a shadow on their cardboard boxes as they were whisked away and crammed into hungry mouths. Sam practically inhaled his portion, then took a plate, made his excuses, and removed another three slices before retreating towards his and Sarah’s bedroom.

The gloom of the night through the ceiling-tall glass was covered over by the mirrored orange of the apartment, the potted shrubs and greenery on the flat roof beyond paled out with very few colours. Sam glanced outside, then slunk through the opening at the end of the single hall. Dean sighed as his brother closed the bedroom door, hours of studying awaiting him.

Dean only got so much as a bite of pepperoni in his mouth before Sam’s door opened again, and the fat ball of fluff that was Lucifer got deposited outside.

“And stay out,” Sam told the creature. “Go play with Dean.”

“No,” Dean said.

Sarah took it upon herself to click her fingers towards the cat, and to Dean’s relief, Lucifer didn’t even spare him a glance as he trotted over to Sarah’s reaching hands.

Their scoffed meal continued in comparative silence, punctuated mostly by the smacks of Gabriel’s weak-framed bed slamming up against the wall, as well as the occasional laugh or moan. Dean considered that Gabriel was using the loud noise as a form of gloating about having two attractive women in one bed at once, but the fact of the matter was that the walls here were nothing but wood and ancient insulation. Sound radiated much the same way as a cold draft.

The rhythm of the thumping bed reached a crescendo, turning to rattling rather than a solid pulse. Dean rolled his eyes and chewed hard on the last remaining crust of his pizza, craning his body over the bar top with his weight on his elbow. Sarah turned the page of a catalogue, with Charlie leaning on her shoulder to observe the pages along with her. Lucifer sat in the dip of Charlie’s free arm, gazing at Dean.

“What’re you reading?” Dean asked, forcing his gaze off those creepy yellow eyes.

“Uniform catalogue,” Sarah replied, a sigh in her voice. “I need new scrubs.”

Dean leaned closer in interest. “Proper ones for work, or special ones?”

Sarah looked up. “Special how?”

“Special, like,” Dean licked his lips, a trembling grin lifting one corner of his mouth, “like for private time with Sammy, right?”

Charlie laughed before Sarah even blinked. Lucifer jumped from her arms and vanished from the kitchen area, his white tail swishing like a feather duster.

“What?” Dean said, defensive.

Charlie beamed at Dean adoringly. “Not everybody likes playing dress-up, Dean.” Dean pursed his lips, suffering an uncomfortable flip low in his gut as Charlie added, “Or, at least not the way you like to, going by the things under your bed.”

“How the hell do you know ab―” Dean cut himself off, sucking his lips between his teeth.

Both women’s eyes sparkled as they smiled at him, and he turned away, feeling like he was steaming from the shoulders. He grabbed the empty pizza boxes, leaving the full one untouched on the bar.

Sarah’s smiling voice came, soothing, across the kitchen, “You know, Dean... that kind of thing isn’t―”

The sound of Gabriel’s bedroom door unlatching turned all of their attention, and Dean watched a tall, pale-legged woman step out into the living area, lips between her teeth in careful concentration. She turned to shut the door as quietly as possible, crouching a little on her untied stilettos.

As she turned to face the others, she brushed a tight curl of dark brown hair over her pixie ears. A breath of what was perhaps relief tumbled from her lips, and she caught Charlie’s eye and smiled.

“Thank god,” the woman whispered. “I thought they’d never stop.”

Indeed, silence now reigned in the household, the sound of the sink gurgling breaking the fuzziness in Dean’s ears.

“Hungry?” Dean offered, opening the last pizza box and stepping around the bar to present the display to the woman.

“Ahh, thanks,” the woman said, fiddling with the loose collar of her dress shirt. She spied the bow tie Charlie offered her, and with one hand, she draped the bow tie around her incredibly slim neck, and with the other, took a slice of seafood pizza.

“I’ll give you five bucks if you can put that whole thing in your mouth at once,” Charlie uttered, her eyes following the sweep of the woman’s hand as she raised it to her lips.

Dean wouldn’t have even imagined such a well-brought-up-looking waif of a girl would even consider such an offer, but her shapely lips parted into a sly smile.

Dean stood beside Sarah and watched in awe as the woman won herself five dollars. Her chipmunk cheeks bulged on either side of her pouting mouth, and her eyebrows raised defiantly at Charlie.

Charlie went to get her wallet. Dean hadn’t seen her look so pleased in weeks.

“Would you like to get cleaned up?” Sarah asked the woman, hiding a huge smile behind the back of her hand. “Bathroom’s just beside Gabriel’s room.”

The woman hummed a round, stuffed note, still fighting to chew as her swaying legs carried her over to the open door that led to the bathroom.

“I’ll call her a cab,” Sarah said, turning away to go to the phone.

Charlie took her place at Dean’s side, folding a five-dollar bill back and forth to straighten it out between her bitten nails. “I like her.”

“Sure she’s not taken?”

Charlie half-winked at Dean, her red hair catching and slipping on the stitches of her maroon hoodie. “If she was taken, would she _really_ be slipping unnoticed out of Gabriel’s weekly threesome?”

Dean pulled a face. He honestly didn’t care to dwell on the specifics of Gabriel’s love life.

The woman walked back, her tailored waitressing outfit neater now, her skirt properly straightened around mid-thigh. Somehow, her makeup was unsmudged, her hair still held smooth against her scalp, the tight ringlets pulled like a bush from the back of her hair, cascading over her shoulders.

Dean could barely stop staring at quite how delicate she seemed, but he managed to break the spell long before Charlie did.

“‘m Charlie,” Charlie said.

“Gilda,” the woman replied, offering a manicured coffee-silken hand for Charlie to shake.

Charlie adopted a particularly smarmy expression, before bowing forward and kissing the back of Gilda’s hand. “My lady,” Charlie said, a dulcet tone coating her voice like honey.

Dean smirked.

“Cab’s on its way,” Sarah chirped, clapping her hands once as she shuffled back over to the group. Charlie and Gilda both smiled at her, and Gilda thanked Sarah kindly, her captivating golden eyes leaving Charlie’s face only for a moment.

Dean cleared his throat and edged away, taking Sarah with him. Charlie was smitten already, and it wouldn’t do to encroach on her flirting space.

Gilda didn’t take long to tighten the straps on her shoes, and Charlie offered her pea coat to sling around the other woman’s high shoulders as they headed for the door.

“Go with them,” Sarah muttered to Dean. “Make sure Charlie gets back safely.”

Dean tutted. “She’s a grown woman, she can―”

“Go _with_ her,” Sarah said again, more forcefully this time. “I don’t trust the city people.”

“You don’t trust any people,” Dean muttered back to her, already heading after the chatting women.

Sarah snarled at his turned back. “There’s a good reason for that.”

Dean didn’t argue, shucking his feet into his boots, not bothering to do the laces. He followed the line of stairs going downwards, the tinking light above the steps giving out a disjointed glow. Charlie held onto Gilda’s slender arm, helping her on the staircase. Her heels pocked into the wood, her friendly smile on Charlie rather than her feet.

Dean caught muttered words passing between them, possibly about Gabriel and Kali, possibly about pizza.

The door to the street opened inwards, a rush of car-fumed air hauling itself up the tunnel of stairs. Charlie laughed as she tumbled onto the brick slope, glancing back to see Dean following them.

“What, I can’t take care of myself?” Charlie asked Dean, as he closed the front door behind them.

The night sky was pinholed with stars, but only the brightest shone through the aura of the city. The horizon behaved much like a field of floodlights, bathing the sky with ambience as they all stood on the edge of San Francisco’s rising hush. The city drowned the massive space of beyond, and maybe that was a good thing: it kept them inside, holding them to the Earth. Grounding them.

Dean sighed into the air, eyes on the waxing summer moon. “Nope.”

Gilda made a soft noncommittal noise. “I’m sure she could.” Dean met her eyes, and Gilda’s curved lips curved a little more. “But that doesn’t mean she should. Thanks for coming out.”

Dean’s smile felt awkward and forced, but he followed the other two down the deserted slope, watching their mouths move in words he couldn’t quite hear, every sentence touched by a gentle laugh.

It seemed so easy for Charlie, sometimes. And for Gabriel. There had been a new woman for each of them every few weeks, and none of those women had ever _not_ being worth knowing. Some laughed well, told a good joke, ate more than Dean did. Some stared, chewed politely, made excellent spaghetti. None of them passed through the apartment easily or hastily, all of them left a trail of perfume, or a bowl of something delicious in the fridge. What didn’t make sense to Dean was why he could never find these women. Where did they all hide? Where could _he_ get one?

He decided long ago he wasn’t jealous. He simply wanted a taste of what it was to experience that sort of relationship. He had friends, some of whom, like Charlie, he counted as siblings. Aside from Sam - and technically Sarah - he had no family. Not any more.

He had nobody who sat outside of that circle.

But maybe, Castiel...

Dean stood with his toes at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the trundle of commuting cars as they beeped and drawled along the road, faces of their drivers no more than night-edged shapes. The red and white headlamps of the vehicles dragged in his vision, fading lines coursing through the black, imprinting shaking roads of their own across Dean’s corneas - just like the packet of sparklers he’d opened on the roof little more than a week ago, while fireworks were drenching the same city sky with bursts of colour. 

Phone numbers changed hands; Dean watched the women pass thumbs over each other’s keypads. He simmered in slight awe at how fast some things happened for some people.

He’d lived a fast life, once. There was a very good reason he was standing out here by the road with Charlie now, and that was because sometimes, the fast life was prone to catching up. Two months wasn’t a long time to have been going slow. There was still a possibility, a small chance, that the government wasn’t as good at hiding people as it was meant to be.

Small chance, yes. But like Sarah, Dean still worried.

The taxi Sarah had called wheeled up to the kerb, its chassis whistling as the brakes slowed it to a stop. Cars passed it by, currents rushing in their wake, rocking the stationery cab by as little as an inch each time.

Charlie opened the door for Gilda, and Dean sank curled hands into his jeans’ pockets as Gilda leaned over the door to kiss Charlie on the cheek. Charlie’s face flushed, a shade on her face Dean saw even in the dark.

“Call me when you get home,” Charlie said, and Gilda nodded. She folded herself into the back seat, closing the door with a puff of minty taxicab air. She waved, ghostly behind the glass window.

The engine clunked, loud and horrible, and pulled back into the line of traffic before the cars got a chance to slow again.

Charlie watched the yellow car merge with the others. “I really like her,” she said. She sounded a little in awe of herself, as well.

Dean patted her on the shoulder and turned to take them inside. He didn’t have anything to say.

Cupid’s Bow looked like a block of inky-black shadow as they passed. Its display front reflected only the glint of light that shone off Dean’s glasses frames, but had he not seen that, it would have appeared there was no glass at all, and no flowers waiting patiently for him to return, come morning.

He shut the street door behind them, and let Charlie turn the stairwell light off before they even climbed. The box of warm light from the apartment above guided their way, but for a few seconds, Dean closed his eyes and climbed blindly. He still felt a fulfillment from being able to work with his senses dulled, forcing him to stay sharp. He would only admit it to himself, but he missed the feel of a metal tool in his hands, poised like a pen between his fingertips. Just the feel, just the sound, and nothing else.

The apartment door closed firmly, a two-tone clacking sound that was reversed from down the narrow hall to Dean’s direct left: Sam poked his head out of the bedroom, a puzzled frown on his face and the white cat in his arms. “This door was closed, I swear,” he said, handing Lucifer to his wife. “He just showed up on my desk and started chewing my pen.”

“The moment he starts chewing skin, I’m calling animal control,” Dean said, eyeing the cat’s lopsided whiskers with some trepidation. “Rabies or not... It looks like leprosy.”

Sarah held the cat up to her nose. “You’re not a leper,” she mouthed to it, pathetic lulls and drooping vowels all over the words. “Nooo you’re not. Noo noo noo.”

Sam snuffled a laugh, meeting Dean’s eye. They both shook their heads in silent amusement, and then Sam turned back to his room.

At a loss for anything else to do until Gabriel was ready for a stern talking-to, Dean went to the remaining pizza box.

“Uh,” he said. He lifted the box and showed Charlie its contents. “There was a whole pizza a minute ago. I don’t think the cat―”

“Gilda,” Charlie said. A proud smirk adorned her cold-reddened lips. “She sneaked another couple pieces.”

Dean set his jaw. He wasn’t prepared to say he was impressed by the woman’s pickpocketing skills while she clearly had no pockets, and yet, Charlie saw exactly how impressed he was. He snorted and turned away for his room.

“I’m going to bed. Got a four a.m. market trip tomorrow.”

Charlie and Sarah harmonised as they called after him, “Goodnight!”

Dean stripped his bed, sneezing eight times in a row as he tried and failed to duck the flurry of white fur that clouded the air. He got a roll of sticky tape and stuck it around his hand, sticky side out, and squashed it against everything within inhaling distance of his bed.

He was all set to wake up tomorrow with a swollen face and weeping eyes, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do everything in his power to stop it happening more than once.

He waged his quiet war against the devil cat, then fell grumpily into a fresh layer of sheets, unrinsed toothpaste burning the taste of cat butt off his tongue.

Sometimes, even when the apartment was resounding with not so much as a clunk of the pipes, he could still hear the bustle of life around him. There were so many people here, and he couldn’t shut it out easily.

His shop was the only place he could breathe deeply. He fantasised about it in order to sleep, after battling to quiet his more active thoughts.

The warmth of his bed became the well-conditioned air of the shop, the scent of washing powder in the sheets became the perfume of fresh summer buds. The light that crept over his windowsill became the light in Castiel’s eyes.

He smiled, nuzzling his pillow at the thought of Castiel.

He fell asleep in under half an hour, his mind still buzzing with other people’s chatter. The rumble of the road beside the building shook his window as a truck drove past. Lights still played over his face, keeping him from descending into deeper slumber.

Only before dawn did he sink into total, restful sleep.

And then his alarm went off.


	3. River Tide's Coming In

Castiel burst into Cupid’s Bow at five past ten on Monday morning, shaking fog out of his hair. Even the summer here was achingly cold, particularly in the mornings. While the shop’s humidity was barely any different to outside, warmth kissed Castiel’s cheeks, and he breathed out a sigh that no longer caused a plume of mist to curl from his lips.

Turning his eyes to the desk, he met Dean’s eye. Dean looked surprised to see him, but not at all displeased. His book almost fell to the desk as his attention diverted entirely to Castiel.

“Morning,” Dean grinned, immediately shoving his glasses up his nose with a finger. That hand returned to the desk to join the other, his fingers locked like a resting spire against the wood.

Dean touching his glasses had to be some sort of preening, perhaps. Castiel removed his own hand from his hair, having been preening as well.

He met Dean’s eye again, finally replying. “Hello, Dean.”

“Do you need something, or are you just here to...” Dean trailed off and lifted a finger, spinning it to indicate vagueness.

Castiel licked his lips, stepping up to the desk. “I need to buy Daphne flowers.”

Dean stood up with a chuckle, slipping on his apron. “I can help you there. What’s the occasion now?” 

As he was halfway out from the desk, one hip brushing pink roses, he paused.

Castiel hadn’t answered yet. He was too busy watching Dean’s face grow concerned, a frown putting a fine line on his forehead. He looked up, and Castiel saw very obvious trepidation in his eyes.

“What?” Castiel asked.

Dean gulped. “You’re not gonna ask her to marry you... are you?”

Blinking, Castiel turned his eyes towards a shrub, whose spindly branches spread in an umbrella in the far corner of the room. “Not today.”

But how long until he did?

Dean seemed to be asking the same question in his head. His shoulders bowed as he stepped into the main square of the shop, tying his apron. His eyes stayed on the floor, jaw tense.

“You really don’t think I should marry her?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean said, quietly.

“You don’t need to say everything, Dean.”

Dean’s lips twitched into a very brief smile, eyes almost making it as far as Castiel’s face, but instead remained settled on his left shoulder. “It just strikes me as odd. People don’t marry people they barely know, not the way you’re doing it. At least not any more.”

Castiel had to admit he was slowly warming up to the idea. Marriage to Daphne would entail living with her, so long as they went about it correctly. Cohabitation was something that interested Castiel; he’d been thinking about it all weekend: his home was empty, and there was a definite space in his life which needed filling.

“What I do is my own business,” Castiel told Dean, standing up a little straighter.

“Yeah.” Dean lowered his eyes again.

“Dude,” he added, in a lighter tone. “You know your tie is on backwards, right?”

Castiel looked down, seeing the brown inner lining of his blue tie resting on his belt buckle. “Ah,” he said. “I was in a hurry. And I still am - I have a meeting to attend in―” he pulled out his phone, flicking the screen to bring up the clock, “less than twenty-five minutes.”

“Better get moving then,” Dean said, grinning as he moved past Castiel. “What kind of flowers do you want?”

“Roses.”

Dean’s shoulders halted, the red-orange plaid on his back pulling taut. “Really.”

“Yes, Dean, really,” Castiel said, narrowly avoiding a very rude eye-roll. “I have romantic intent towards Daphne, and―”

“Cas, it’s fine,” Dean said, turning around with a placating hand raised towards Castiel, a smile on his lips. “I get it. You like her. You’re like every other guy in love with a girl. Roses is it.”

“No, I’m not in love,” Castiel told him, conversationally, as he undid his tie.

Dean shook his head as he shifted his fingers among the roses, disdain clear in the way he held his shoulders up, his hands fast and jerky as they lifted rose stems. “Not my place to judge you,” Dean said, slowly, examining a rose bud at eye height, “but man, I’m judging you pretty hard right now.”

Castiel’s hands slowed on his tie, balancing the lengths but going no further. He watched Dean tutting to himself and moving flowers to the front desk, his movements still sharp - not necessarily _angry_ , but uncomfortable.

“I had a really great burger last week,” Dean said, breaking the quiet, as well as Castiel’s half-resolved plans to put the man in his place. “There’s this burger joint up in Union Square - uh, what was it―?” Dean got to the desk and lowered himself behind it, then came up with a trash can in hand.

Castiel couldn’t help but frown as Dean rummaged through plant offcuts, then dragged out a crumpled square of white paper. He read its coloured print, then set down the trash can and threw the paper back into it.

“Burger Babes?” Dean shrugged, then returned to the roses. “Yeah, I’d eat that again, I think. I’m pretty picky with my burgers. Not a fast food guy.”

“I see,” Castiel said. He was unsure why Dean was telling him this, but he appreciated how trivial it was. It was good to hear discussion outside of money, or housing, or any kind of philosophical debate.

Dean grumbled, shutting his eyes. Almost pushing his glasses off his face, he ran the heel of his hand across one eyelid, pressing in and rubbing, a deep frown set on his brow.

Castiel paused with his tie halves overlapping on his sternum, his fingers still not yet ready to do it up. “Dean, may I ask you something personal?”

Dean glanced at him, adjusting his glasses once more. “Uhhh. Shoot?”

Castiel eyed the scruff on Dean’s jaw, the dark shadows that at first had seemed like nothing, but now, fit snugly into Castiel’s slow-building theory. “You’re not sleeping,” Castiel said.

Dean cracked a grin, gaze falling to the broken-stemmed rose he tossed to the desk. “That’s not a question.”

“ _Are_ you not sleeping?”

Dean’s smile was less of a smile than a grimace. His gaze set on Castiel as he closed his eyes, and the lines on his face became more prominent, like Dean was trying to show Castiel exactly how tired he was.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, nodding as he began to sort the roses flat on the desktop. “My housemate, Sarah, she got this... cat. Well, I call it a cat―” Dean gave a solemn chuckle, squinting. “It lives up to its name, for one thing. It’s called Lucifer.” He looked at Castiel with a dulled stare, weariness pulling his shoulders down.

“That is a very... strange name,” Castiel replied, placing his toes right up beside the desk, the rims of his shined shoes rubbing on the scuffed wood. “Perhaps Sarah is partial to angel lore.”

Castiel himself adored angel lore, ever since he was a child. He’d made up his own angel name, _Castiel_. The way the sounds fell off his tongue was a delight for him. _Kas-ty’el_. To him, to have any association with Heaven was to have a part of Heaven with him, always.

Dean scoffed, however. “Nah. It’s not even Sarah’s cat. Her friend took off and dumped the thing with us. Pretty sure she was a psycho Satanist.”

“Satanism isn’t all bad.”

Castiel hadn’t made the comment for shock value, yet he still felt a simmer of satisfaction as Dean’s lips parted in mild alarm. But beyond raised eyebrows, Dean made no other reaction. He cleared his throat and went back to grouping pale pink and orange roses.

“So, yeah, this cat,” Dean muttered, setting a small elastic band around the rose stems. “I’m pretty allergic to it. I’ve been downing antihistamine tablets all weekend, sitting out on the roof to stay out of its way, but it’s like the fur’s in the frigging _air_ , I can’t get away from it. I mean, look―”

Dean pulled down the collar of his t-shirt, showing Castiel a red irritation on his slender collarbone.

“Fuck. I can’t wash it off, I can’t stop it itching. And I could barely _see_ this morning.” He shook his head, sighing. Castiel felt sympathy for him, now very aware of Dean’s stiff fidgeting, captivated by the way he moved, as well as how often he was licking his dry lips.

“Anyway. I’m sleeping, but not well.” Dean shrugged as if it was nothing, wrapping warm-toned paper around the roses and decorating it all with a ghost-like silk ribbon. His hands shook very slightly, his skin touched by the faint glow of the morning sun as it slunk its way over the window display of the shop.

The fog was clearing, and Castiel could see the lane beyond the window. A woman in a navy-blue parka walked past, carrying a tray of sandwiches from the shop next door.

Dean calculated Castiel’s total, closing his eyes and unfolding his fingers one by one, mouth moving as he did the sums. Castiel waited patiently with his wallet in hand, a fifty-dollar bill already poised. As Castiel accepted his change, Dean smirked. He seemed quite proud of himself for doing calculation correctly, in his current state.

Castiel picked up the flowers and patted his pockets down before he made to leave. He hoped he would still look presentable when he saw Daphne at the meeting.

He glanced back to Dean, not yet reaching for the door. “Dean... do I look okay?”

Dean’s smile grew slowly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards completely for the first time since Castiel entered the shop today.

“You look great, Cas,” Dean said, warmth smothering the soft words. Castiel smiled, just at the way he said ‘Cas’. It melted the last of the cold mist that chilled Castiel’s body; Dean’s voice felt like liquid inside him, tender.

“One thing,” Dean blurted, before Castiel’s fingers even touched the brass door handle.

Dean hurried out from behind the desk. His smile was broken now, rising and falling with each quick breath. He dropped his gaze, hands raising to touch Castiel’s chest.

Castiel was surprised at the touch; he might even call it shock. But Dean’s fingers moved slowly and gently, and it took at least five, ten seconds, before Castiel could even look away from Dean’s perfect face, which was lowered to see what he was doing.

He was doing up Castiel’s tie.

Castiel shouldn’t have felt pleasure at seeing Dean’s hands looping material around his neck. Shock didn’t cover this feeling any more; he wanted to rub against those hands, let them pull his tie so tight he had no choice but to follow its guiding pulls. Yet all he did was stand in silence, bubbles of intense and incredibly inappropriate physical bliss soaring in every limb.

He felt himself hardening against his suit pants. He was too aware of how it felt, utterly confused as to why that was happening.

He could smell the elastic band Dean had used to tie the flowers on his hands, and his _skin_ , and the flavour of his hand soap, potent enough that Castiel would have been able to pick out the brand between a hundred others, just by the smell of it.

Castiel’s tie was given a final shift, Dean wriggling the knot higher, tighter, until it sat neatly under Castiel’s throat, nestled between the sides of the collar on his white shirt.

Castiel let free a caught breath: shaky, hot on his lips.

Dean patted Castiel’s trenchcoated shoulder once, his smile friendly, pleased with how Castiel looked now. “There. Go give her the flowers, and tell her she’s amazing.”

Castiel practically floated out of the glass door, the awareness of Dean shutting the door behind him and the slanted bricks below his shoes only coming to him moments later, as fog crept down his neck again.

He walked towards the main road with his nose in the bunch of flowers, then joined the throng of people on the streets. As he forced himself to stop inhaling the scent of roses, it hit him that the flowers were for Daphne, not himself. It seemed that each time Castiel took a bouquet made by Dean’s hands, it was somehow a gift. Even if he gave these roses to Daphne, they would still feel like his own.

He arrived at his meeting perfectly on time, flowers grasped in his left hand. He shook hands with his business partners, and took his seat at the long oval table as Meg closed the door behind them all. Daphne wasn’t here.

Castiel put the bouquet very carefully down on the table in front of him, mindlessly tuning out the pre-meeting babble of the people around him. Meg sat in the seat beside Castiel, leaning out of his way as he removed his coat from his arms and draped it over the back of his chair, the sleeves turning inside-out.

“Who are those for, Clarence?”

Castiel looked at Meg, then sighed. “Please call me Emanuel.”

“You’re the one with the angel obsession, you should like it.”

“But I don’t like it,” Castiel said. “And these,” he touched his fingertip to the nearest peach-coloured rose, “are for Daphne.”

“Ooo-oh,” Meg sang, resting her black satin-shirted shoulder against Castiel’s bicep. “Did she stand you up?”

Castiel shook his head, then ran his gaze around the room, not expecting to see Daphne. Perhaps she didn’t _want_ to see him. He bit down on nothing. “Maybe.”

At that moment the door clicked open, and Castiel’s eyes snapped over to see Daphne edging inside, her body ducked apologetically, mouth drawn out as she smiled to everyone else. “Sorry - sorry I’m late. My daughter was sick.”

The fifteen other people in the room groaned and tutted understandingly, taking their seats, their eyes all on Daphne’s subdued grace. She sank into a seat, tucking her short, wavy hair behind her ear.

“We’ve all been there, hon,” a woman said, the name of whom escaped Castiel. The group murmured their agreement, conversations rising between some of them.

Castiel lowered his eyes to the flowers, grasping them and slowly dragging them under the table to his lap.

“Chicken,” Meg hissed at him, watching the movement.

Castiel couldn’t say anything against such an accusation. He kept his eyes down, hearing mutters about children from every side of the room. Even Meg finally turned away, stories about her own daughters ready to be passed to the woman on her other side.

Castiel sat in silence.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

✿

The meeting ended ten minutes early. Emanuel waved Daphne over into the break room, hiding the bouquet, keeping his head down as she entered after him. His gaze fell across the window at the side of the room; the city seemed miles away, the last of the morning fog still holding the buildings in its fuzz.

“I hope you had a good weekend,” Daphne said, her lipstick a startling red in the grey light.

It had not been a good weekend at all, but Emanuel nodded in any case. “Fine. I hope your daughter is okay.”

Daphne waved Emanuel off with a small sigh. “She’ll pull through - it’s only a sniffle. The change in the weather always gets her.”

Emanuel nodded again, then pulled out the roses. He remembered to smile, but it probably didn’t appear as any more than a lopsided smirk. “I got you these.”

“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Daphne took the flowers, her manicured nails clacking together as they surrounded the paper-wrapped stems.

Emanuel never much liked when he was told he shouldn’t have done something nice. It was rhetorical, he reminded himself. Yet, people ought to say that they were pleased if they were pleased, rather than rejecting the gift _while still accepting it_. Human interactions like this one curdled his understanding, sometimes.

Daphne caught sight of Emanuel’s face, and laughed. “Oh, look at you. Your father told me you got a little muddled sometimes.” She leaned in close and petted the arm his trenchcoat was draped over. “They’re wonderful, Emanuel, thank you,” she said, making full eye contact.

Emanuel lowered his gaze. “You’re welcome.”

Daphne began talking about the meeting, exiting the break room and expecting Emanuel to follow. He walked at her heels, feeling faint rushes of air around his own legs as her steps disturbed the stillness of the hallway. He stood beside her as they waited for the elevator.

Emanuel could smell her perfume. She’d not worn perfume this strong before when she was around him.

The elevator seemed too crowded with just himself and Daphne together. She chatted, and he listened, but he was more aware of how _aware_ he felt, rather than actually feeling anything. He counted the things he noticed about her: her perfume, her red heels, her nails. She tucked her hair behind her ear over and over, and tilted her head towards him.

None of those things made him want to move closer.

He wanted to find the part of her that would make him laugh, but nothing about his current situation, standing elbow-to-elbow with her, made him want to stop her chattering so he could ask.

He wanted to be in love with her.

And he wasn’t.

“Daphne,” he blurted, slicing right through her sentence. She turned to look at him, her face showing sincere interest in whatever he would say.

“I was wondering if you,” he said, “would like,” he swallowed, “to have lunch with me.”

“Of course, Emanuel, that would be _great_. I was thinking somewhere uptown, since I have my car. You know they charge twice as much for parking now? I tried taking it up with the board, but...”

Emanuel stood in silence again as Daphne talked.

The elevator doors trundled open, and Daphne led the way towards the basement where her car was parked. The marble courts of the foyer were much the same as the one at Emanuel’s apartment, and they were equally as chilly, and full of suited coffee-cup-kissing people with ringing pocket telephones.

On their last date, Emanuel spoke as often as he pleased. He’d found it easier to talk then, but not now. Why was it so hard now?

His father often said Emanuel had trouble with people. ‘Muddled’, was apparently the word he’d used to describe him to Daphne. Emanuel wasn’t ‘muddled’, he just didn’t enjoy talking to the kinds of people his father saw him interact with. Emanuel prefered to be blunt, because he would rather the conversation be kept minimal.

Castiel was a different man. Castiel liked talking about things that didn’t matter. Because, in the days just gone, he had learned that the smaller things _were_ important. The kind of burger Dean enjoyed was important. The kind of flower he liked best, that was important too. There was no future investment in that information, no buildings to purchase and no horses to bet on. But knowing that sort of thing made Castiel... happy.

“Hm?” Daphne said, as they made it to the car.

Emanuel glanced up from the black tarmac of the parking lot, finding the concrete roof too low over his head. “Pardon?”

“What’re you smiling at?” Daphne asked, a grin showing her straight teeth. She gestured to his face. “I didn’t think my cousin’s tax evasion was really all that hilarious.”

Emanuel’s tongue stumbled as he tried to find words. “I was thinking about...” He shook his head, feeling the lightness of his smile dissipate into a jaw held stiff. “Something else, don’t worry about it.”

Daphne shook her head too, a small breath rushing over her lips. “Well, come on, the door’s unlocked.”

Emanuel climbed into the passenger seat of Daphne’s Japanese car, folding his hands neatly into his lap. Daphne turned her head back over her shoulder, her hand on the headrest of Emanuel’s seat. The car reversed, the engine winding smoothly, its rumble rhythmic below the carpet under Emanuel’s shoes.

“So, where to...?” Daphne muttered, driving the car with a decisive force up the ramp that led into the sunlight.

Warmth coasted over the roof of the car, a wave of golden sunlight smoothing over Emanuel’s cupped hands. The car tyres bumped down off the kerb and into the main road, immediately joining the slow slug of the midday traffic.

In the sudden warmth, the smell of the car rose up, and Emanuel breathed in the sticky scent of lipgloss, fake strawberries, as well as something that fizzed much like cola on his tongue. The seats were dusty, and each time the sun pulled itself around the car at the turnings, Emanuel watched the dust motes hold their positions, shifting only when he deliberately breathed over them.

“Any suggestions?” Daphne asked, flicking her eyes towards Emanuel. Her usually porcelain skin now shone with sunlight, her hands on the steering wheel almost radiating its own light, like the moon.

Emanuel only had one option come to mind. “There’s a burger shop in Union Square,” he said. “I believe their selection is exquisite.”

Dean had enjoyed it. Castiel trusted Dean’s judgement; the flowers in his apartment still looked as beautiful as the first day, even though they had aged and were drooping slightly. Dean chose well, and Castiel - _Emanuel_ \- has no reason not to assume all the other things Dean liked were also amazing.

“Union Square it is,” Daphne said, with a smile. “I’m not really one for meat, but I’m sure they’ll have a nice salad.”

Emanuel smiled at her. Daphne liked salad. That was important.

They drove into a high-rise car lot that was almost full, and Emanuel insisted he pay for the parking, since Daphne had driven him here. She tucked her hands under her armpits and kept a flat smile on her lips, watching Emanuel press the buttons on the ticket machine.

She left the roses in the car, not wanting to let them bruise.

Emanuel led her into the square, and the two of them became surrounded by open, hard space. Emanuel had no idea where to go from here, but with a chuckle and a few minutes of time, Daphne said she would look up directions on her phone.

The buildings around here were shining with rectangles of sun, peaches and creams cut by black windows, some of which reflected the light and made the whole courtyard radiant. Glimmering sunlight washed over the acres of grey slabs, as well as the stripes of pale, soft reds; wide green palm trees grew in planters, shadows stark and small.

People crossed the area with shopping bags dangling from their fingers, each of them coloured brightly, the style matching their footwear and their well-cut coats. Business was moderate for now, as it was just past twelve on Monday.

Emanuel put on his coat; even though the mist had lifted and the sun was pooling between the borders of the city, he still felt a chill under his fingernails. Daphne pulled on his sleeve to let him know where to go, then walked ahead, pattering down a set of stone steps, her hand on the rail. She checked behind every so often, making sure Emanuel was still behind her.

She must be used to having a child with her, Emanuel supposed. He wouldn’t get lost out here, and he could take care of himself. Maybe he was meant to be walking in front. Maybe he was meant to be leading _her_. He didn’t know how this was meant to work.

They entered through a Macy’s store and took an elevator up, leaving behind a marble foyer.

Emanuel was definitely not expecting what they walked into, when they made it inside. Blue neon coloured the back wall with a fierce aura, almost drowning the dozens of two-seater tables with its glare.

Emanuel looked away from the lights when Daphne made a delighted sound. “Oh, this view is wonderful,” Daphne said, her hand on Emanuel’s arm. “We can see the whole square from here!”

Emanuel followed her to a table, bypassing a few couples who sat here and there, a few groups collected in the far corners, their laughter barely carrying at all. Blue flashes still burned into the his vision as he blinked.

The sound of a musical bassline filled the air, like a thumb on rubber, grating a vibration. The thrum of it was felt even in Emanuel’s knees.

As he took his seat opposite Daphne, he took the time to look around again.

He was surprised to see a woman in a bikini approaching their table, her terribly slim arms bare, a pen poised over a notepad. Emanuel’s wide eyes couldn’t help but take in the astonishing amount of skin she was displaying, her breasts set into triangles of stretchy blue fabric, strands of denim brushing on her hairless upper thighs.

“ _Emanuel_ ,” came a harsh and cutting hiss.

Emanuel’s eyes snapped over the table to meet with Daphne’s, and his insides jarred as he saw her complex and unreadable expression. “Uh?”

The waitress spoke instead of Daphne. “I said, are you ready to order, sir? Can I offer you any specials?”

Emanuel set his eyes very pointedly on the polished table before him. “I’ll have your most popular burger. Just the one.” He glanced to Daphne, catching her eye and feeling a hot blush burn his neck. “Daphne?”

“I already ordered,” Daphne said.

Emanuel hadn’t even noticed.

“I’ll be back in a little bit, you two just take your time to look at the view, yeah?”

Emanuel did not look at the waitress as she left. He was still blushing, more from the fact that he’d let his eyes be drawn in the same direction as every other man’s, rather than the fact Daphne had caught him looking. He was disappointed with himself. He didn’t even find the woman particularly attractive, he realised. He’d just... looked.

Daphne started laughing.

Emanuel looked up at her, wondering what was funny. Daphne had a hand over her mouth, a flush on her high cheekbones, which pushed crinkles into the corners of her eyes. She snorted rather inelegantly, and while he was still at a loss, Emanuel’s lips twitched in a tiny, tiny grin. He’d never heard Daphne make such an unladylike sound, and as she made it again, a definite smile pulled at his lips.

He caught her eye, and they both held each other’s gaze, until Daphne had to look away, her eyes watering.

“Oh, good lord,” she murmured, inhaling breathily, one hand on her sternum and the other wiping a tear from her eye with a finger. She glanced back to Emanuel, and pursed her lips as she refrained from bursting out in another laugh. “Well, Emanuel, I must say, I’m at least impressed with your - hm, let’s call it humility.”

Emanuel blushed again and stared at his hands as he put them on the table top.

“How often do you come here, huh?” Daphne asked, leaning over the table and putting her chin on her hand.

“Oh, no, I’ve never been here before,” Emanuel replied, quietly. “Dean recommended this place. I didn’t―” The music changed in the background, interrupting Emanuel’s thoughts. “I didn’t know what it would be like.”

Several bikini-wearing women stood behind the front desk, one making coffee with a massive machine, another tucking a pencil behind her ear. Emanuel looked away, frowning. Their lack of clothing and proximity to a machine that could spit hot liquid was a safety hazard, surely.

It was odd, imagining Dean eating burgers here. Emanuel was certain Dean would come here more for the food than the women, but there had to be a definite possibility that he came here for both.

Daphne sat in silence, a lingering smirk on her lips as she peered out at the sunlit square below them. People appeared no larger than insects from here, but they were still close enough to make out their activities: business, shopping, social. Some young men on skateboards rushed through the square, practising their tricks down the stairs.

At last the food arrived, and Emanuel took his first bite, closing his eyes to savour the sauce and the meat, the crunchy pattie and the soft bun. The combination of flavour and texture was indeed stupendous, and yes, he would be sure to tell Dean that his passing recommendation was appreciated.

Daphne’s salad was good too; she said as much, and Emanuel watched her plate slowly clear of leafy greens.

They eventually began to chat; Emanuel ordered them each a slice of cake and a coffee, and they found another small dose of laughter as the afternoon blossomed into full summer heat. The sun began to shine brighter across Union Square, high-rise buildings becoming towering pillars of light every time Emanuel glanced in the direction of the massive floor-to-ceiling window.

Daphne liked talking about her daughter. She smiled every time, and Emanuel mirrored her joy, not understanding everything she said about parenthood, but still noting each anecdote, preparing for the time when he would eventually be Juliette’s step-father.

Upon that thought, he turned his eyes away, allowing the bright outside to bring pain to his eyes. It was such a daunting prospect. He wasn’t ready for fatherhood, just like he wasn’t ready for marriage.

He was almost thirty-nine years old. He _should_ be ready for marriage. In fact, he should have married years ago.

“Emanuel?”

Emanuel nodded. “I’m listening.”

“I should be getting home, though,” Daphne sighed. “Juliette’s okay by herself, but she hasn’t been too well.”

“She’ll get better soon,” Emanuel said, feeling like it was the tenth time he’d had to say it.

Daphne seemed reassured, like she had all the other times. She waved for the bill, and the two of them waited wordlessly until the waitress returned with the scrap of paper.

Emanuel reached for it automatically, but paused as he saw the writing scrawled across the bottom of the receipt, a small heart drawn beside the name ‘Suzie’.

He looked at the waitress, meeting her eyes rather than her breasts this time. “Suzie?”

Suzie winked. “That’s me.”

Suzie swayed on her tall heels. Emanuel thought she seemed far too young to be working here, and didn’t want to consider how many disgusting men would ogle her every day. This place made him uncomfortable, but maybe the same wasn’t true for Suzie. Maybe she liked working here.

Emanuel cleared his throat and pointed at the receipt. “You... left your number here?”

She smiled at him, lifting spread fingers to her ear, miming a phone. “Call me, big boy.”

Daphne spluttered.

Emanuel shook his head, holding in a gasp. “No, I, I’m―” He flustered, managing to gesture towards Daphne. “I’m with her.”

Suzie’s feet strayed a few steps from the table. “Oh, oh my god. I thought this was, like, a business meeting! You were both in suits, and you were talking so... hell, I don’t know... God, I’m so sorry―”

Emanuel signed the paper, adding a sizable tip without a thought, then handed it to Suzie in silence.

Suzie disappeared in a clatter of heels on the floor, and Emanuel stood to help Daphne with her coat.

Daphne was still chuckling.

They made it to the elevator, and Emanuel's hands felt like they had never been sunk as deeply into his pockets as they were now. Cold lurches were moving in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t lift his gaze from the floor at all - not for a lack of trying.

The elevator trapped them together, and Emanuel could again feel Daphne’s body edged against his. They weren’t touching, but the amount of air between them seemed like a world of not enough.

“Emanuel,” Daphne said, slowly, once the glowing numbers in the elevator’s black screen indicated they were halfway to the bottom of the building.

“Yes?”

“The person who recommended this diner―”

“Dean.”

“―Did he know it was for a date?”

Emanuel’s tongue caught on his answer. Technically, Dean had never told Castiel to take Daphne here. He’d said to take her somewhere with a menu. Perhaps there was a menu here, but Emanuel hadn’t even looked at it.

“No, he didn’t,” Emanuel said. The cold lurch in his stomach wasn’t quite dread, but more like... dread already passed. Regret. Embarrassment?

“Where would you take me, if you were to pick?”

Emanuel looked over at Daphne.

She smiled so nicely. There was warmth there which eased the coldness in Emanuel’s gut. He sighed, letting the icy mist destroy itself, wanting instead to enjoy Daphne’s company, not dread it.

He thought about his answer until the lift landed them on the first floor, letting them walk out into the foyer once more.

“The beach,” Emanuel said, as they strode into the sunlight, side by side. “I’d take you to the beach.”

Daphne hummed, pleased. “The beach it is, then.”

They made their appointment for that Wednesday. Daphne heartily recommended that Emanuel did _not_ wear a suit, and having already had this discussion with Dean, Emanuel agreed, and they parted ways.

Emanuel had told Daphne he had business in the city centre, and while it was true, it meant less _business_ than it meant him buying new clothes.

He had no idea where to start. His entire life, he’d had his own tailor, the family tailor. When he’d left home in a burst of desperate frustration, fueled by the need to escape, he’d only fallen back into the patterns of what he knew. He’d gotten his own tailor, and over and over again, he’d gotten his suits made.

Now, however... he did not want a suit.

Emanuel spent the next six hours trailing between shop and store, peering confusedly at labels and asking employees for help. Most people were happy to help him, and ushered him in and out of changing rooms as he tried item after item on.

He had no clue what he was supposed to wear to the beach, but he was quite clear on the fact that he would not be wearing shorts. Nor would he be going bare-chested. San Francisco's summer evenings may be warm enough for some, but he had no intention of displaying his chest to Daphne just yet.

Maybe ever.

Saleswomen called him ‘cute’. They touched his arms, and they asked him to twirl so they could see how his buttocks looked in each pair of jeans. They cooed at him, and they gathered their coworkers closer so they could admire him.

It could have been his so-called good looks. It could have been his so-called endearing cluelessness. But he had an aching suspicion that these women only adored him because they knew who his father was. That social mark always felt like a curse.

He stood at home within a circle of shopping bags, cloth draped out of their sides, string handles tangled together. His feet ached like he’d been treading on hot coals, and his face and hands felt sticky. His aftershave had weakened entirely; all he smelt now was the fresh air, and the longer he stood, letting the day’s peculiar tension drain away, the more he noticed the snarling scent of car traffic, pressed into his hair like an ugly department store perfume.

He dragged his feet to the bathroom, feeling heavier under every step.

Castiel hated everything he’d bought. He’d never let Dean see him wearing any of it.

✿

Wednesday came much sooner than Castiel expected, given he’d slept through most of Tuesday. He’d never been on an adventure quite compared to that of shopping for a whole day, and suffice to say, he was tired afterwards.

He spent Wednesday morning playing the same song on his double bass ten times over, experimenting with exactly how many trills he could fit into one set of notes.

He gave up when his phone reminder pinged, and he sighed all the way to his walk-in wardrobe, picking out an outfit combination that didn’t make him want to pull at his sleeves constantly, or wriggle his fingers to pinch the denim of his skinny jeans so it didn’t bunch between his legs.

Still, he prefered the skinny jeans to the _very_ skinny jeans, which he’d been informed made him look like a rock star. The closest he ever got to being a rock star was when he played double bass at his father’s lakeside assemblies at his estate, and he was fairly certain that didn’t count.

Emanuel took a taxi to Daphne’s house rather than taking the time to walk, since he ran half an hour late choosing shoes. He wore his new sandals in the end, determined to at least look like the beach was his destination.

The blue sweater he had over his t-shirt was less for warmth as it was a deterrent for people looking at his muscular arms. He wanted to look nice. But he also didn’t know what to do with a compliment when he had one, so buried himself under things that people wouldn’t like. People met him and they sighed.

The taxi dropped Emanuel just outside the steps of Daphne’s house. He watched the cab drive away, then turned his eye up the tall blue-grey of the Victorian house. The sun was well past the day’s high, and a warm breeze carried along the road, bringing with it the smallest bits of summer debris, flecks of road dust and the occasional green leaf.

Emanuel climbed up the stairs, then stood his feet firmly upon the welcome mat. He knocked, practising his smile in the shadowy reflection in the glass panel of the door. He stopped as he heard footsteps approaching in the inside hallway, and he turned his face down as the door opened. The smell of the house carried into his face, and he breathed in the scent of a candle that he owned too; sandalwood, oak.

“Good evening,” Emanuel said, smiling brightly as Daphne showed herself, one side of her hair pinned up with a clip, her eyes painted with a glittery purple shadow. She looked wonderful, and Emanuel finally moved his mouth to say, “You’re beautiful.”

He exhaled as the words left his mouth, and he bit down on the inside of his lip, frowning.

“You’re just the sweetest,” Daphne laughed, tickling her fingertips on his sweater. She turned back inside the house, calling to Emanuel, “I’ll be ready to go in just a tick, I just need to say goodbye to―”

Her voice cut short, and then she returned to the doorframe, eyes still on something inside. Then she rounded her gaze back to Emanuel.

“Emanuel, would you... I mean, would you mind if...?”

A short version of Daphne blustered out of the door, hurrying past Emanuel and tapping him on the side of his leg as a coloured umbrella dragged in the girl’s wake.

Emanuel watched the child bounce down the steps, going to wait by the turquoise Citroën 2CV that was parked in the driveway. Daphne’s company car sat ignored behind it.

“Um, I mean to say,” Daphne continued, going to stand out on the porch beside Emanuel, “would you mind if Juliette came with us? She’s been ill, and she needs some fresh air. Or―” Daphne laughed, swaying her shoulder against Emanuel’s trenchcoated side, “so she says. I think she just wanted to meet you, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Emanuel said. “Well.”

“If it’s a problem, it’s absolutely okay,” Daphne nodded, already moving towards the top of the steps. “I can take her out by myself today, and you and I can go out some other time?”

Emanuel’s mouth closed slowly. “We can go today,” he said, with a nod. He glanced warily towards the chirpy red-headed girl, who was testing her umbrella, popping it up and down. “I’d like to meet her, too.”

He did want to meet her. Only, not yet. She was only small, but she scared him. The prospect of having her in his life _forever_ scared him.

Cohabitation, he thought, as he followed Daphne to the car, was something that interested him; that much was true. But cohabitation with someone he felt he barely knew, as well as her offspring - that pulled a twang of apprehension in him. He liked living alone, even though it was lonely.

They all sat in the 2CV, the curved frame and squashing windows surrounding them like sardines inside a tin. Emanuel could see everything out of the windscreen, since it felt like it was pressed right up to his nose.

Daphne started the engine, and the wheeled box carried them out into the road. It chugged along, and it felt so weak under Emanuel, he worried it would collapse under the weight of all three of them.

Maybe what he needed, he thought as he stared out of the window, was a cat.

While they were dependant creatures (and occasionally _in_ dependant, when they wandered off), cats would not need help with their homework. Nor would they start asking questions about things Castiel had never learned the answers to.

However, Dean was allergic. That fact was important, too.

Juliette’s voice was like Daphne’s, but less refined with her speech. Juliette didn’t talk about housing investments or stockbroking, but about sandcastles, and the smell of rain. It made Emanuel smile.

They drove to the beach bordering the river, the Golden Gate Bridge looming red and prominent against the dusky blue of the ocean beyond.

Daphne parked close enough to the kerb that Emanuel heard the dust clanking up against the engine. The flat spread of sand before them was scuffed in random patterns where people already ran about, dotting the expanse with busy life, bare legs and shoulders gleaming tanned in the early evening sunlight.

“Mom! I’m gonna build a sandcastle,” Juliette hurried to say, then burst out of the car and slammed the door so hard that the entire chassis rocked. Daphne squeaked as she saw Juliette running off, and Emanuel was left alone in the car when Daphne scampered after her, shouting at her not to disappear.

Carefully, Emanuel extracted himself from the car, looking back and seeing Juliette had left her umbrella in the back seat. He decided not to interfere with her belongings, and left it where it was.

He followed the tracks of sand that led away from the car. Sand slumped into the dips in his sandals, and he stood still for a moment, peering down at them in discomfort. The yellow granules were gritty and sharp, and he was sure he’d go back home with sore feet again.

He eventually caught up with Daphne and her daughter, both sitting in the sand with their legs folded, arms draped around their pale-skinned knees. Emanuel stood beside their feet, hands in his trenchcoat pockets.

“Sorry about that,” Daphne said, standing up. She looked at her daughter, who had begun to build a pile of sand. “Juliette was... _enthused_.”

“That _is_ why we came here,” Emanuel said, smiling at the curious little girl.

Her face was a little pudgier than Daphne’s, her hair not combed quite as neatly, and she wore no makeup, but she was certainly no less pretty. She did not look anything like Emanuel, though, and he knew she never would. Something about that fact seemed odd all of a sudden: he’d grown up used to children looking like their parents, but Juliette would never be his, in any way at all.

“We should walk,” Daphne suggested, taking Emanuel’s hand.

He didn’t try and pull away. Instead he put his fingers around her hand, and he squeezed. People in love held hands. He could do this.

They carried on in the direction they were already walking. Juliette huffed in complaint behind them, since if they kept moving, she would have no time to make sandcastles. It didn’t seem fair that she had to follow the adults, forbidden from wandering off, but not quite welcome here. This was supposed to be a private date.

Emanuel glanced at the girl, wondering what on Earth he could say to console her.

Daphne’s hand was warm, curling into Emanuel’s, the pressure of her hand demonstrating how determined she was to have this. Emanuel was equally as determined. They would fall in love, and that would be that.

But there was so little to talk about.

Emanuel broke his hand away from Daphne’s, heading across the sand to pick up something small and white that rested in the dip of someone else’s deep footprint. He put it into his hand, and stood up, peering at the smooth shape.

“What’ve you got there?” Daphne asked, slowing at Emanuel’s side.

Emanuel instead showed the item to Juliette. “Do you like shells?”

Juliette nodded. “I can make a castle roof out of them.”

She was shy around Emanuel; her turned-down eyes and her hand fiddling on her coat zipper said she would usually be livelier than this, with no ruddy blush on her cheeks. Emanuel cupped the back of her hand in his own, as gently as he would for a plant’s leaf. He put the shell into her palm, letting her close her own fingers as he pulled away.

“It’s really light,” Juliette murmured, blinking a few times, then glancing to her mother. “Mom, can we make a castle?”

Daphne gave a short smile, her cheek caught in the oranging light as the sun moved closer to setting. She nodded slowly, resentfully, but still pleased to see her daughter responding to Emanuel. Emanuel tipped his head gratefully to Daphne, then turned his gaze to the messy sand.

Juliette began a frantic chase around the immediate area of the beach, ducking around other people as they passed by, couples hand-in-hand, other people with their younger children. Emanuel watched Juliette for a few seconds, before Daphne’s hand slipped back into his own. Sand brushed from his fingers as she touched him, and grains pressed between their palms as they latched together.

“She has school tomorrow,” Daphne said, firmly. “I don’t think she’s as sick as she said she was.”

Emanuel let out a soft breath. “She was sick earlier, you said.”

“But now look at her.”

Juliette was bouncing from place to place, grabbing at shells and stuffing them into her pockets. Her hair got wilder by the second, loose curls flapping by her ears.

“She recovered,” Emanuel told Daphne. “People get better and then...” He shrugged, because it was obvious. “Then they’re not sick any more.”

Daphne scoffed, removing her hand to cross her arms. Emanuel wondered if he’s somehow said the wrong thing.

“She knows how well she is, Daphne,” Emanuel said. “She knows herself better than you could ever know her.”

Daphne looked at Emanuel like he’d insulted her. She scoffed again, her lips wide and open, at a loss for words for a few long moments. Then her face softened, and Emanuel began to relax as she said, “You’ve never been a parent, Emanuel. When you raise a child, you know them better than they know themselves.”

Emanuel conceded her point, and he nodded humbly. “But I will stand by what I said. If she says she was sick, believe her. Children are resilient, and not always liars.”

Daphne closed her eyes and sighed.

Emanuel shook his head and bent to retrieve a shell for himself. It was curled like a small cigarette paper in his hand, smooth and thick, empty of any animal that once lived inside. A water-worn hole pierced one side, and every edge was like ceramic under his thumb.

“Mom, my pockets are full,” Juliette called, hurrying up to Emanuel and Daphne.

“I have pockets,” Emanuel said, pulling one out from his side to offer its storage. “Put all your shells in here, if you want.”

Juliette began doing exactly that, bunching white snips in her hands, as well as another kind of mottled grey shell. Emanuel felt the pieces tumbling past his hand as he held his pocket open, slowly filling it. His pockets were far larger than Juliette’s, and the contents of both her pockets only filled half of one of his.

Juliette bounced away again, her hair almost frizzy now.

“Your pocket will rip,” Daphne warned, one eyebrow raised in a sharp arch.

“I’m sure it can withstand a few shells. This coat has lasted me for years.”

Daphne chortled. “Yep, it looks it.”

Emanuel glanced at the tan lapel of his coat, where it flapped a little in the soft breeze. “Are you saying my coat looks old?”

Daphne’s smile was quiet and secretive. “I’m saying it looks effing awful.”

Emanuel looked at her, hoping very dearly that she was joking. But she glanced at him just once, and a guffaw burst from her lips, her body folding double over her thighs. Emanuel watched her shoulders shaking, then met her eye as she stood back up, her mascara sticking to the skin below her eye from a dampening tear of laughter.

“I like my coat very much,” Emanuel told her. He tried not to sound hurt, but even he detected the low tremble in his throat.

Daphne giggled as she dabbed a handkerchief under her eyes, her lips shivering with leftover smiles. “Oh, gosh. You are the most ridiculous thing.”

Emanuel frowned, completely unsure if he was talking about him or her handkerchief, given she was only making eye contact with the latter.

Juliette bounded back, hands cupped with a few dozen pieces of shell, mixed colours and shapes between it all. Emanuel opened his pocket without a word, and let the shells tinkle and roll together against the others.

The sun drifted towards the horizon, and the three of them walked very slowly towards the bridge, but no matter how far they walked, it still seemed miles away. The sky was pinkening at the frontier, white clouds edging with the faintest tinge of orange.

Laughter carried on the wind, the crush of other people’s feet in the sand easy to hear while they too enjoyed a stroll. The scent of the salt water gnawed on the back of Emanuel’s tongue, and the lowering heat of day gradually became more noticeable from the sand that trickled into his sandals than it was in the air.

Daphne took Emanuel’s hand again, and with a light sigh, Emanuel mentally forgave her for the comment about his coat. In a marriage there would be differences. If Daphne didn’t love his coat, it wasn’t important. What was important was that he enjoyed the company of her daughter.

Emanuel’s pockets filled on either side, and when they were bulging, fat and heavy, weighing down each step, he beckoned Juliette closer.

“Do you actually intend to make any castles? Or are we just collecting shells?”

Juliette shrugged. “The shells are nice. But look―” She turned away, running towards a dry rock that was plugged deep into the surrounding sand.

“I think she’s talking to you,” Daphne said, touching Emanuel’s elbow as she let his hand go free. “Go and see what she’s after?”

Emanuel did as he was told, his toes tucking under cascading sand as he neared the water’s edge. The river lapped at the sand, the tide rising. Juliette crouched beside the rock, still beckoning Emanuel closer.

He squatted, hands on his knees. His heavy pockets thumped against the sand, some white pieces slipping out and hiding in the grains below.

“Look what I found,” Juliette said, showing him something she had cupped in her palms. A grey crab sat in the cage of fingers, its legs held still, its pincers shifting slowly but presenting no apparent danger to Juliette’s hand.

“Aha,” Emanuel said, at a loss for anything exciting to say. He knew nothing about crabs, only that they pinched.

Juliette’s eyes flicked behind Emanuel’s shoulder, wary, and he took a guess to say she was looking at Daphne. As the girl looked back to Emanuel, there was a far older person behind her eyes than he’d seen before.

“My mom talked to me the other day,” she said, her voice no longer chirpy and shy. She wore no smile, only looked carefully at Emanuel. “She said maybe you might get married.”

“That is our plan,” Emanuel nodded. He didn’t wish to talk plainly to her; she was evidently not innocent of everything in the world. Twelve years was a long time, and she would have done more living in that time than Emanuel had ever done. “If everything goes as we hope... yes, your mother and I will marry.”

He swallowed, watching the crab scuttle back and forth on Juliette’s palm, not able to go anywhere. He felt like that, too. Trapped in an almighty hand, not willing to pinch it, but unable to get to the sea.

“You’d live with us, and you’d pay for our groceries,” Juliette said.

Emanuel chuckled. “Perhaps. We’d sign a prenuptial agreement upon marriage; none of our money would be shared. But if I lived with you, I probably would buy your meals, you’re right. Your mother has work to go to, while I only have occasional meetings. I’d be... home a lot,” he said, feeling very unhappy at that possibility.

He didn’t want to keep house. And yet, he felt sorry for Daphne, as she’d had to do exactly that, and go out to work each day as well.

Juliette seemed to consider this for a little while. “Do you believe in God?”

Emanuel was taken aback by the question. He’d never expected someone so young to care about that kind of thing. Himself, he only cared because of... what happened.

He looked at his sandals, seeing a line of dirt under his toenails that wasn’t there before.

“I believe in angels,” he said.

He sighed. It hurt to talk about, a pain deep inside him that went further than any physical part. “I believe that when people die, they go to Heaven. And that there are angels watching over us, alongside the souls of people who left us behind. I believe people are fundamentally good. And that perhaps...”

He reached for the crab, and Juliette tipped it into his much larger palm. “Perhaps there is a God. Some ancient being that created it all.” He glanced to Juliette’s face, seeing her grey eyes resting on the crab, which was sharp and tickly and wet on his skin. “What about you, what do you believe?”

Juliette shrugged, putting her hands on her knees. Dusk cradled her face, a rough wind picking up to push her hair away from her shoulders. “I think believing in something is good. Mom’s a Buddhist.”

Emanuel nodded. “And you?”

Juliette gave a long sigh. She was thinking; it was a complex question.

“Mom says I don’t have to be a Buddhist. But I think I want to be, just because I want to believe something.”

“You can believe what you like,” Emanuel told her. “My father raised me as a devout Christian, and I enjoyed the teachings, but I found there were too many disconnections in it for my liking.”

Juliette laughed softly.

Smiling at the small crab, Emanuel ran his thumb over its domed shell, his other fingertips chilling as they went unmoved.

“My mother died,” he said. “When I was your age. I―” He swallowed hard, feeling himself choking up in a rush of heaviness; not only were his pockets filled with shells, but all of his bones, and his lungs and his heart, too. “I miss her... very much, even now.”

Juliette looked to her mother, who didn’t appear to have moved. “I’m sorry,” she said, still looking at Daphne. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

She returned her gaze to Emanuel, with the same softness in her eyes as Daphne had. “But you believe she’s an angel now. She’s still looking after you, isn’t she?”

Emanuel took a few seconds to nod. But when he did, his mouth pulled into a smile.

The smile felt incredible. He’d never smiled about it before. He smiled now at the memory of his mother’s hand around his own, warm like Daphne’s, her laugh like safety, like a tight embrace that nobody could ever replicate. To smile now was to have his mother make him smile again.

He looked Juliette in the eye and thanked her. She was twelve, and she scared him, but she reminded him of his mother. Family. He’d never felt anything more strange.

“If you marry my mom,” Juliette said, taking a breath like this was the last thing she would say, “then I want you to be nice to her. And don’t leave her like my real dad did.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Emanuel said, echoing Juliette’s own words.

The purpling light ran bruises down the girl’s pale cheeks, a constant breeze now pressing into Emanuel’s face. Juliette nodded, plucking the crab from his hand.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. She put the crab down on the sand, and the two of them watched it pedal its little legs sideways, scuttling back to its rock.

Juliette stood up, and offered a sand-pecked hand to Emanuel to help him up. He didn’t need the help, but he took her hand anyway, lifting himself to his feet. Juliette’s face turned away, and she went to her mother’s side.

Resolutely, Juliette told her mother, “We should go home now, it’s getting late, and I have school tomorrow.”

Daphne’s laugh was like a train on a track, weakening as the track pulled into the distance. With a twinkle in her eyes, Daphne looked to Emanuel. The evening was so gentle on her soft skin, her hair turned the deepest purple, one eye painted in gold from the sun.

“We’ll go,” she said, and raised a hand towards Emanuel.

Emanuel took her hand, and their fingers slid together, locking, as they began their walk back to the car.

Juliette skipped ahead, joyously kicking up sand. Emanuel watched her stop to pet a dog, then follow the footprints that a hundred other people had left over the day.

They made it back to the car as the stars began to show through the blanket of blue-violet, the howl of the wind coming deep and tortured as it rolled through the sky far above.

The car seemed like a sanctuary of closeness after being so lost in the open. Emanuel heard his own breath, heard every rustle of his companions’ clothing, and he felt more secure in the tiny car then he ever thought possible.

Daphne yawned on the drive back, slowing at stop signs, checking both ways twice before making any move. She was careful as she drove, and Emanuel once more felt the safety that only came with family. Perhaps he could fall in love with this feeling, if not with Daphne. They could each provide each other with something, and that was what marriage meant. Investment.

Daphne dropped him at home, and he waved through the car’s window as she wound down the glass.

“Have a lovely evening,” Daphne said to Emanuel, reaching close enough that he could squeeze her hand with his own. “I had a nice time tonight. And Juliette did too,” she added, throwing a fond glance over her shoulder. Juliette was curled in the back seat, her cheek pressed to the glass as she slept.

“We ought to meet again soon. When are you next free?” Emanuel asked.

Daphne shrugged. “I’ll check my calendar.”

Emanuel nodded, and pulled away. “Have a safe trip.”

The car’s wheels scuffed down off the sidewalk, and back into the busy city street. Emanuel saw how out of place the Citroën looked among the imported cars and slimline metal bodies, but he’d grown rather fond of how quaint it was.

The sliding doors to his building required his key card now it was dark, and once he was inside, he tucked the card back into his jacket pocket as the glass swept shut behind him. The foyer was lit well, gleaming floors being polished by a cleaner as he passed. He nodded to the woman, who tutted at him, but followed the tut with a smile.

He walked to the elevators and waited for one to arrive, still watching the cleaner.

Once sealed into the elevator car, he stared at his own reflection on the mirrored walls. There were dull bags under his eyes, as well as the usual thin dips of skin below them, but now, there was a faint - very faint - tilt in his lips.

He was smiling without even trying.

Perhaps he was a little in love. He hoped it was true. He wanted so dearly to make his father proud for once.

He followed the hall that led to his apartment, and let himself in. Blinking heavily, he made his way for the kitchen, meaning to fix himself something quick to eat before bed. Or maybe he would stay up all night, he had not yet decided.

He only made it as far as the first kitchen island before his pocket tore. He heard the strain of the stitches, then the weight of it re-entered his awareness - and then shells were spilling from his body, like blood, like sadness. His sandals collected the smooth white chips, tumbles and scatters of other pieces roaming across the tiles like ceramic raindrops.

He felt relieved at seeing them gone. However unrelated, seeing them spilling over his feet allowed him a moment of revelation: he didn’t have to be in love. People could make him smile, but that didn’t mean he loved them.

Juliette and Emanuel each had a burden of shells. And like shells, like the weight of sadness in their bones, there was something like blood between them. Juliette could be family, but that didn’t mean Emanuel had to marry her mother. Daphne was a friend to him, and he ought not force what wasn’t there. They could still be family; family didn’t have to end with blood, but neither did it require marriage in order to be real.

Emanuel knelt, picking up handfuls of shells, transferring them into metal bowls from his kitchen cupboard. He emptied out the other pocket before it had a chance to split, and set both full bowls in the sink, then shed his coat and removed his sandals. Sand left a trail across the floor, but he let it be. He took off his sweater as well, and stood in the kitchen with bare feet, toes curling into each other.

With his middle pressed to the sink, he began to wash the shells.

It started off complicated, requiring a third empty bowl set upon the drying rack; he allowed a stream of water to pour over the piles of shells, but found it only bounced off, with no space to collect. It soon became a simple and rhythmic task; his hands warmed from the trickle of water, and he rinsed the shells handful by handful, soaping each one until the grime of the sea flowed away down the plug.

The air tonight had been briny, dusty and warm. The air in each place he went described how his life continued in that place: the beach, warm like Daphne; the flower shop, warm like Dean.

His hands still shifted the shells, soaping them clean, tossing them into the third bowl.

Castiel closed his eyes.

Warm like the sun, gritty underfoot, the toss and roll of the water at the riverbank, the tide lapping upward, slowly making to fill the beach with its swirl. The bridge in the distance, red against lilac, paling orange clouds like a near-dry paintbrush skimmed over the canvas of the sky.

“You walk too slow,” Dean would say, filling his own pockets with shells. “I want to see the whole beach before it gets dark.”

“Ah, but when it’s dark, that’s the best part,” Castiel would say, smiling. Smiling because Dean made him smile without even trying. “When it’s dark, I can’t see you.”

“Then how will you know it’s still me?”

Castiel would step close to Dean, putting another handful of shells into his pocket. Heavy, important shells. He’d feel the warmth of Dean’s hip, so close to where Castiel’s fingers dipped into his pocket. So close to his body.

“I would know it’s you,” Castiel would tell him, watching Dean’s bare feet in the sand, toes buried under it. “I know what you smell like.” Castiel would touch Dean’s hand, taking more shells that Dean had never bent to pick up. “I know whose hands these are.”

“You’d know me just by my hands?” Dean would whisper. He would feel pleasure at hearing those words, Castiel wanted him to feel pleasure. He wanted him to be aroused, for his mouth to go dry at knowing how much Castiel had thought about his hands.

Hands on the horizon, pushing the sun a little closer to darkness.

“I’d know you by your eyes. By your smile.” Castiel would put another handful of shells into Dean’s pocket, weighing down the single pair of shorts he wore. Pockets like the sun, sinking lower. “I’d know you by your lips, by your breath. By the way you say my name.”

Shells. So many shells. Pockets and pocketsful, more shells than there ought to be.

Enough that Dean’s pockets ripped, and―

Castiel’s breath caught; he bit his lip, tense all over, hands blindly going to slam the tap off, eyes not daring to open before he could finish the fantasy. He gripped the side of the sink, feeling how hard he was inside the too-tight jeans he wore.

―and Dean stood, naked on the beach, with nobody beside him but Castiel.

Vulnerable. Everything went away as the shells left him, like sadness, he was left with an absence. Naked in every way.

Castiel wanted to fill the void.

Dean’s hands would hold his own body, cradling himself lest anyone see him so bare. The softest blush would touch his face the same way the clouds touched the sky, hidden in the darkness but still glowing, glowing with warmth.

“Here,” Castiel would tell him.

He would remove his own coat. He would give the coat to Dean, help him put it on, help him cover his naked skin. The coat was Castiel’s beloved shield; security. He wanted Dean to have that gift.

Castiel’s hands on the side of the sink held on even tighter. No, he wanted to linger on Dean being naked. Naked, naked, bare skin. Hands over himself, blushing, lips parted just the tiniest bit, eyes wide in desperation.

Not shame, never shame. Only need.

Castiel’s hips pressed tight against the kitchen cupboard, one fast hump making the door rattle. He gasped at the shock of sensation; he was thick and wanting between his legs, and he didn’t want to leave the beach behind, not while Dean was still naked.

Naked, biting his lip―

Glasses. Castiel had forgotten them.

No, there would be no glasses. Not in his fantasy. In his fantasy, Dean had nothing in the world but Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes snapped open. That was a terrible thing to want.

He didn’t want Dean to depend on him, just like he didn’t want Daphne to depend on him. Castiel barely knew Dean at all. He was very attractive to Castiel, physically, and perhaps such a thing was rare for Castiel to feel about another person, but he certainly didn’t want Dean to have nothing.

It was only a fantasy, Castiel told himself. That kind of thing was okay. He’d never take away from Dean what he already had, only give him more. He’d give him the security of a coat, but only if he needed it. There was no point giving a coat to a man who was already warm.

Castiel sighed, running a hand between his hip and the kitchen counter to rub at his erection through the denim.

This was such a ridiculous predicament. He wasn’t in love with anybody, but between Dean and Daphne, he felt like he’d found something wholesome. Dean gave him happiness and excitement, Daphne gave him a future and family.

Which of those was the most important?

He was just as clueless about that as he was about buying clothes, and so he retreated to his shower, forbidding any passing fantasies that might come his way.


	4. Seashells and Sandwiches

Dean rubbed at tired eyes as he closed the door to his apartment, hoping he’d be able to get some rest tonight. If someone let the cat into his room, there would be trouble.

As he passed the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was a head of red hair dangling over the back of the couch, a breathy sound lingering above it. Dean stomped past on his way to his bedroom, flexing his fingers. Once the light was on, one single glance into the room let him know that he would not be sleeping on his own bed tonight.

Lucifer was curled nose-to-ass in the middle of Dean’s mattress, and Dean was done with it.

“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, you fuckers,” Dean declared to anyone who was listening, stomping back over to the couch, where Charlie lay.

He stopped dead as he realised what was happening on the couch.

Charlie lay back with her jeans around her knees, and Gilda was crammed between Charlie’s thighs, her tongue doing―

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Dean complained, flapping his arms at his side as he stomped around the couch, then stomped to the glass door and then stomped out onto the roof, shutting the glass door behind him.

He took a deep, cleansing breath as he flicked the fairy lights on. The warm orange of the drooping line of lights lit up around the roof, bordering it as bright as a house at Christmas. His potted trees rustled in the night breeze, the rising moon edging their leaves with silver alongside the soft orange.

He heard a long moan from inside, and he cussed to himself, despairing of how much sex went on in this apartment that he wasn’t part of.

He rolled up the barbecue cover, adjusting the gramophone speaker he kept there, then set the needle on the record.

The flowing dulcet sound of Glen Miller echoed around the buildings, notes lost between the walls, sucked into the darkness as the darkness loomed. Dean tipped his head back and put his hands into his pockets, watching the stars glint, their winking eyes sharing jokes amongst themselves.

Maybe one day he’d have someone to gross out his friends with. He’d thump his bed against the wall, and he’d moan in the shower, and he’d leave condom packets between the couch cushions, just like everyone else got to.

The door to the roof opened, and Dean glanced around to see Charlie coming out to join him, a cigarette already hanging on her lips.

“Doing the Batman thing, huh?” Charlie gestured to Dean’s stance as he stood on the rooftop and stared out across the city, watching in silence.

Dean smirked, then shrugged. “I thought you quit,” Dean said to Charlie, nodding towards her cigarette, trying to look as disappointed with her as he felt.

“I did,” Charlie said, tugging out her lighter and flicking it once, twice, then setting the tip of the cigarette into the flame until it flared. “And then,” she tucked the lighter back into her jeans, “I caved.” She pinched the roll between two of her fingers, and said to it, “I wish I knew how to quit you...”

“This is the fifth time now, right?”

Charlie nodded solemnly, crossing her arms and resting on elbow in a cupped hand, raising the cigarette to her lips. “Three times before you got here, then once a month since I knew you.”

“Well, sixth time lucky,” Dean shrugged, going closer to the glass behind him, sitting down in the swinging loveseat. He chanced a look inside, not seeing Gilda padding around anywhere, and assumed she was in the bathroom. “And talking about getting lucky...”

Charlie chuckled, slumping into the wooden seat beside Dean and letting it rock a little easier under their better-distributed weight. “Sometimes things just happen.”

Dean couldn’t be sure why, but his first thought was the image of Castiel striding into his shop, demanding flowers.

“Yeah,” Dean said, thinking of Castiel’s peculiar smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What’s up?” Charlie asked, blowing smoke away from Dean. “You haven’t make a gay lady joke yet.”

Dean snorted, leaning forward and putting his feet to the flat roof, forcing the loveseat to stop swinging. “Ahh, it’s nothing,” he said, grinning. “Just, you and Gilda. Happened real fast, you know?”

“Says you. You who finds one-night-stands, or so I heard. Gabriel’s a tattletale.”

Dean tried to smile but failed. “I haven’t done that.”

“Done what?”

“The,” he cleared his throat, “the one-night-stand thing. Not since we landed in San Fran.”

“Is this something about your _shady_ past that Sam and Sarah keep mentioning but never explaining?”

Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded, slowly. “All the―”

He stopped himself, and swallowed. “All the guys,” he said, “that I slept with, they were all bad people.”

“Bad, as in, leather jackets and studs, or―”

“As in the kind of people who are in jail now. Because of me.”

Charlie blew a ring of smoke. “Interesting.”

Dean set his face into his hand, astounded that this conversation went south so very quickly. “Anyway, this has nothing to do with you and Gilda. Only, it does.”

“How so?”

Dean’s smirk was sad and small, and it faded within a second. “Ever get the feeling, like, the walls are closing in? That no matter how much space you have...” He circled a finger around the roof, its borders still glowing with the linked lights. “There’s always something... juuuust out of reach.”

“No,” Charlie said. “But I take it you do.”

Dean breathed a laugh, staring at his socks, feeling his toes growing cold without shoes. “If we’re really talking feelings right now, then yeah. I feel... smothered, for lack of another word. There’s a fucking pussycat on my bed, a jackass in the room next to me who thinks playing drum ‘n bass CDs at two in the morning is still the cool thing to do, and a brother whose life is so on track that he’s practically part of the rat race by now.”

Dean let his back flatten against the wood of the seat, a slight swing rocking under his thighs as he heaved a sigh. “I’m used to having a gun strapped to my thigh and a ticking countdown timer around my wrist, not a tiny clock.” He shook his wristwatch for emphasis.

“Am I ever going to know what it was you did?” Charlie asked, puffing out a long stream of smoke that dissipated into the air, the smell of it sharp enough that it felt like Dean’s nose hairs were singeing.

“I don’t know,” Dean said, truthfully. “Benny says we’re not meant to tell anyone, but you know most of it already.”

“I figure you’ll tell me eventually,” Charlie smiled, stubbing out her cigarette into the clay pot base beside the swing, then moving to rest an open hand on Dean’s knee. “There’s no real secrets between us anyway, even if you never say.”

Dean nodded, appreciating it.

“Yeah,” he muttered, after a lull in conversation let the sound of cars flood back. “Yeah, I need something less smother-y. And with less cat hair.” He shrugged. “Whatever it is, I figure it’ll pass. I’m happy you’re all happy, so hey, what can I do?”

Charlie squeezed his knee. “If you ever need a place to crash, my apartment’s always there.”

“If that were true, why are you and Gilda here tonight, huh?”

Charlie stood up, a grin on her lips. “Oh, we just came here to smother you a little more. We like when you start squirming and crying. It’s so great to see boys crying, you know...”

Dean growled at her and watched her scurry back inside, taking a wake of laughter with her.

Dean sighed, swinging on the seat, letting it spin unevenly since his weight was all on one side. He listened to the beeps of faraway cars, watching steam escape someone else’s bathroom window, and only realised then that the record had stopped playing, not even skipping.

The silent rooftops had become his sanctuary these past few nights, while the shop was his sanctuary in the day. But the daytime hadn’t seemed so worth enjoying since the day Castiel had last stopped by.

There was something _about_ him.

Dean got up, strode over to the disused barbecue and fixed the gramophone, letting it play the record from the start.

Slow and sultry, its crackling warble cascaded around the buildings once more. He closed his eyes, shutting out the light from the apartment’s huge windows, shutting out the roar of late commuter traffic, and the distant barking of a dog.

He thought of Castiel, thought of his voice, of his inherent plainness. No danger. No lies.

There was a safety in the shop below this roof, and any man who chose to smile there... well, they couldn’t be all bad. Dean liked that.

Maybe it was time he let himself fall in love, for real. Just a little bit.

✿

Castiel arrived at Cupid’s Bow weighed down with three paper grocery bags. Two of them were double-wrapped, in case they split, but the third one was light and far less crinkled. He barely glanced up as he entered the shop, checking only that no other customers were present before he put the bags onto the front desk.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The person behind the desk was not Dean. She had long red hair, scooped up into a looped bunch at the back of her head, and cheerful eyes that peered towards the paper bags on her workspace.

“Oh, I’m... sorry,” Castiel said, retrieving two of the bags but failing to catch the third before it fell over. He grimaced as a sea of white shell chips soared across the desktop, making the woman gasp and leap back from the desk in surprise.

Castiel put the bags down again and began cupping shells back towards him, eyes down. “I thought Dean would be here, I didn’t realise―”

“You’re one of Dean’s regulars? Awesome,” the woman said, a bright smile rising on her face. “Lazy old Bagpuss is still in bed, though.”

Castiel’s brow wrinkled. “Pardon?”

The woman paused with her hands full of shells, then slowly tipped them into the half-full bag Castiel offered her. “He slept in this morning, sent me over instead. I don’t even work here.” The last of the shells got flicked back into the bag, and the woman stood up straight, a sly smile on her lips.

In the few seconds that followed, while both of them straightened up the bags, Castiel supposed she must know Dean quite well, and share good favour with him, if Dean was comfortable enough to send her to do his job.

He exhaled, flicking her eyes to her expectant face. “Castiel,” he said, offering his hand across the desk. The woman grasped it and shook.

She seemed delighted to meet him, a chuckle covering over her reply and bouncy nod, “Charlie. I work with Dean. Especially when, you know―” she pulled an awkward face, taking her hand back, “he needs me to keep shop while he snoozes.”

“He’s not been sleeping well,” Castiel added, mirroring Charlie’s nod. A tiny frown appeared between her eyebrows, but she still smiled.

“So who are you, then?” she asked, not unkindly.

Castiel took a quiet moment to find the appropriate words. “I’m a... friend, of Dean’s, I suppose.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows. She gave a very quick smile, then nodded, eyes down on the bags. She didn’t need to say it, but Castiel saw it in her mild surprise: Dean had never mentioned him to his co-worker.

That ought not disappoint him; he and Dean were still no more than two people who had shared a casual chat a few times. Dean wouldn’t have taken the same thing away from their conversations as Castiel had; Castiel didn’t interact with people on a daily basis. It was special to him, but... no, not to Dean.

“Oh, boy, what’s up with you?”

Castiel looked up as Charlie’s soft voice cut through his thoughts. Her head was ducked, her torso leaning across the desk so she could rest a hand on Castiel’s elbow. He glanced at the touch, then to her face. She’d seen something in his expression that he’d not meant to show.

He swallowed. “Forgive me, I probably... overestimated how much Dean’s interactions actually...”

He left the sentence unfinished, feeling a deep tension across his insides. He looked away, instead taking in the bursts of floral colour that seemed more like a painting in a gallery than a real place, so beautifully arranged.

A simple thought ran through his head: _I thought he liked me._

Following those words, he closed his eyes and a cool wash of sea water swept into his mind.

“He’s upstairs, if you wanted to go say hi,” Charlie said. “Oh, hey,” she added, a chirp in her tone. “You bought him sandwiches?”

Castiel turned, seeing Charlie’s swift hands prying open the lightest of the paper bags.

“He’s gonna love you,” Charlie told him, catching his eye and winking. “Go on, it’s just out the door here, turn left, up the stairs, then knock at the top and someone will let you in.” She gestured with her flighty hand, ending with a single finger pointed at the ceiling. “I left the outer door unlocked when I came down, you just go right on up!”

Her words slotted together alongside Castiel’s prior knowledge, and he said, “Dean said he had a housemate...”

And then another thing hit him, and the discomfort returned to his gut. “Are you... Dean’s partner? I never asked, he never said... Oh, I’m―” He slipped a hand over his mouth, horrified he’d felt so much for Dean - imagined so much with him - when he was already with someone else.

Charlie’s grin rose up one side of her face before she shook her head, looped ponytail bobbing. “I’m only his partner when it comes to manning the shop and watching re-runs on Syfy,” she said. “Besides, I have a girlfriend. Kind of. Well,” she gave a bold shrug, hands flapping. “Yeah, kind of.”

Castiel managed a very weak laugh, pawing at the inside of his coat pocket’s new stitching.

He shook his head, trying to clear away the chaos that was loud and rumbling inside him. “He lives upstairs,” he said, half to himself, half for confirmation.

Charlie nodded. “You should go see him. What’s the time...?” She glanced to a wooden clock on her left, resting against the wall at the top of a shelf. It was almost eleven o’clock in the morning. “He should be up by now.”

Castiel gave her a grateful smile, spirits completely lifted by the encouraging grin she gave in return. He left the paper bags where they were, and let himself back outside, into the thick sunlight that was spread on every surface like butter. For the first time, the shop was cooler than outside. Its regulated humidity had somehow been easier for him to step through than it was to cross the few sloped bricks which took him to Dean’s door.

The door’s white paint had been long-ago chipped at the base, the wood rotting ever so slightly underneath, bubbling the dulled gloss. The handle shone with a speck of reflected sunlight, and it seemed to pierce to the back of Castiel’s head, warming his bones as he reached for it.

It clicked open, swinging inward as Castiel pushed it gently. The stairs beyond sagged in the middle, smelling faintly of garden sheds and wood smoke. It was a very odd scent to find in the middle of town, but it was a gentle aroma, and through it, Castiel could sense the warmth of a home. He closed the door to the street, standing at the bottom of the stairs, darkness locked around him save the line of daylight he saw at the top.

He made his way upwards, estimating each step, finding each one without difficulty despite the unfamiliar feeling under him. His shoes rested upon the top landing, the resounding hollow of the stairwell making his ears ring.

He heard a laugh beyond the door, then a vocal whine upon a word that he couldn’t decipher.

Taking a breath, he knocked, twice.

He heard a quick bustle, a clank of something metallic, then a muffled voice which sounded like Dean.

The door opened a few inches, and Castiel looked up into the face of a stranger. The man had chestnut-coloured hair to his shoulders, ruffled by the morning, and a loose button-down shirt that would probably dangle on Castiel all the way to his knees.

Castiel closed his mouth, then met the man’s bewildered eyes, as the man asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Dean,” Castiel said. “Is he here?”

“Oh, right―”

The man huffed a smile as he swung open the door, stepping back to reveal a little more of the apartment behind him. A kitchen island blocked the majority of the right side, and a sweeping glass window as tall as the ceiling made up what Castiel could see of the left. A brush of a rooftop garden shone green beyond the glass, and it only took an instant to determine that the garden belonged to Dean.

“You a friend of his, or...?”

Castiel nodded, and the man released the door and returned to the apartment, eyes falling immediately on a white shape that trotted towards Castiel.

“Come in quickly, and close the door, don’t want him getting out―”

Castiel hurried to obey, pushing the front door closed with his palm. The cat curled around his ankles, mewing as he headbutted Castiel’s calf. Castiel smiled to the tall man, then bent to pet Lucifer.

“Sometimes I think he’s _too_ friendly,” the man said, the suspicion in his voice directed at the cat.

“I swear, I did not order pizza in my sleep, and if I did, I’m not paying,” Dean’s voice muttered, and Castiel stood up straight, stuffing his hands into his pockets; Dean exited the room just behind the kitchen counter, a towel scrubbing his hair.

Castiel’s focus encompassed nothing but Dean’s bare shoulders as he stepped into the main area of the apartment, naked all the way down to his hips, slim and golden and so exquisite that Castiel felt his mouth water at the sight.

Dean stopped, letting the towel flop to sling behind his neck. “Cas?”

Castiel shut his mouth, clenching his hands into fists inside his trenchcoat. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean chuckled, combing fingers through the strands of his wet hair, walking bare-footed towards him. “What’re you doing here, man?”

Castiel shrugged, unable to stop his eyes dipping downward to look at Dean’s navel, the perfect little shallow of it central to the hairless skin of Dean’s tummy. With a breath, Castiel met Dean’s eye, seeing water dotted on his glasses. “I brought some shells for you. I don’t know what to do with them, but you might find a use.”

“Shells?” Dean flicked his gaze to the silent taller man, then downwards to adjust the knot of the towel around his waist. “Like, a craft project?”

Castiel smiled. “If you like.”

Dean’s lower lip pressed upward in a subtle arch, and he ran his hand through his hair again, a flick of water twinkling as it dove to the floorboards. “All right. Uh, I should get dressed first.” With a subtle movement, he raised his hands to cover his nipples. “I ain’t decent just yet.”

Castiel felt a sudden heat in his cheeks, doing nothing to stop the imagined recollection of Dean in denim shorts, pockets full of shells.

Dean laughed and hurried away, whipping the towel off his shoulders to hit the other man with it. “Sammy, fix me and Cas some breakfast, would you?”

Castiel raised his hand towards the man he now knew as Dean’s younger brother. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I bought us some sandwiches. I, um, wasn’t sure which kind you would like, Dean, so I got some of everything.”

Sam snorted very abruptly, and the cat bounded away at the sound. Castiel looked to Sam in questioning, and was met by a warm and enchanting smile. “You hear that, Dean?” Sam called to his brother, eyes moving to the door Dean had gone through. “Your buddy got you breakfast.”

Dean’s bespectacled face poked out of the room, towel in hand. “Seriously?”

“I think, unless we hurry, Charlie might eat it all,” Castiel said, as an incentive.

Dean harrumphed and disappeared back through the doorway.

“I’m Sam,” Sam said, nudging Castiel on the arm with the back of his hand, then offering him a handshake. “Dean’s brother. Lawyer in training.”

“Castiel.” They shook. Sam’s hand was massive, and his left hand descended to wrap around the top of Castiel’s grip, encasing it in welcome.

“So where did you meet Dean?”

Castiel sank his now-empty hand back into his pocket, thumbing the clumsy stitches once more. “In Cupid’s Bow. I’m just a customer, really,” he admitted. “I could be overstepping my welcome.” He gave a pained frown, studying the hole in Sam’s sock.

However, Sam laughed again, and Castiel looked up to see familiar crinkles at the corners of Sam’s eyes, very much like Dean’s. “Nah, you’re good. Honestly.” Sam’s eyes drifted to rest on Dean’s door again. “He only jokes about his nipples to people he’s totally okay around.”

Joke or no joke, the intent behind Sam’s words was clear. Castiel breathed out a sigh of relief that he almost felt guilty for.

He’d worried far too much over this, he should have just trusted his instinct. People were not as complicated as all that when it came to making friends - if only he’d had the chance to learn that as a child, he wouldn’t have such an issue with knowing.

Sam clapped Castiel on the shoulder, and both men looked over to see Dean scurrying out of his room, fingering his belt buckle closed, a small packet of something held between his teeth. As he approached, he thrust the packet into Sam’s chest, eyes on Castiel.

“Need more tablets, Sasquatch,” he said, before adjusting the collar of his flannel shirt. “Man, that cat has it in for me.”

Castiel gave a strained smile as Dean breezed past him, but the smile blurred into a truly happy one as Dean squeezed the neck of Castiel’s trenchcoat from behind. Castiel spun on the spot, ready to follow Dean to the shop.

“Let’s go see about those sandwiches, huh?” Dean said, pulling open the front door. His wide shoulders curved with fading light as he clumped down the stairs, his boots not done up. Castiel glanced back to Sam, who was holding the cat. Sam nodded, and Castiel nodded back, then went into the stairwell after Dean.

Sam closed the door as Castiel was halfway down the stairs, and at the same time, Dean opened the door to the street. The change in air pressure surrounded Castiel like a popping bubble, and he felt a lift in the tails of his coat as he made to catch up with Dean.

Dean waited with his hand on the door, feet in the street and his arm stretched out to guide Castiel along with him.

Castiel’s shoulder brushed Dean’s chest as he passed, and he spent a hazy moment wondering whether he’d leaned close on purpose, or if Dean had. It had to be his imagination, he decided. He felt like Dean hadn’t shown any real interest in him, not beyond calling him a ‘buddy’.

Castiel entered Cupid’s Bow behind Dean, knowing full well he had to stop thinking about _how_ to interact, lest he screw everything up. He’d already lingered too long on how light-footed Dean made him feel.

“Heya,” Dean greeted Charlie, sweeping back his wet hair again. “I hear there’s sandwiches.”

Charlie mumbled, cramming a sandwich crust into her mouth and looking at Dean sheepishly.

Dean wrinkled his nose, but Castiel only smiled, amused that his prediction had come true.

“Go on, get lost,” Dean told Charlie, thumbing in the door’s direction over his shoulder. “Me ‘n Cas have got urgent business with breakfast.”

Castiel put his hand possessively on the larger, heavier bag of shells, still without a clue to what they could even use them for. He watched Charlie snatch another triangular sandwich, swapping it between hands as she removed her green apron and handed it to Dean. Dean thanked her, then plucked his nametag from her hand, starting to fiddle with it to make it stick to the apron.

Charlie muttered to Castiel as she passed him, “Take your share out first, or he’ll eat the whole damn bag. He’s like a regular Pooh Bear. Trust me.” Castiel turned to frown at her in confusion, but she left the shop with a tinkle of the bell, and the puff of late morning air brought an absence with it.

“Fuckh, Cahss, y’re aweshom.”

Castiel looked upon Dean with a fond smirk, watching him shove another mouthful of white bread and roast beef into his already-full mouth.

“I think you told me something the other day, about feeding people.”

Dean raised his eyebrows above his glasses rims for a moment, looking away from the rolled-down bag and at Castiel’s face instead. A playful smile tugged on his lips, and he shrugged a single shoulder. “Shure I did.” He swallowed his mouthful heavily, panting for breath. “But that was about your Daphne chick and her kid, not me.”

Castiel flicked his eyes away, then back, his smirk twice as mischievous now. “I specifically remember you saying that if I feed you, you’ll like me.”

The word Castiel remembered Dean using was ‘love’. But he didn’t want to force those feelings, not the same way he was doing with Daphne. He wanted to cherish this, the way Dean was smiling now, because it was natural. He didn’t want to think too much about it because he wanted to _keep_ it this way.

“You’re trying to get on my good side, is that it?” Dean grinned, edging around his desk before shoving his hand into the bag to get another sandwich. He poked the sandwich filling back between the bread before it collapsed, then landed his eyes on Castiel’s hovering form. “I’ll tell you now, dude: buying me food is real nice and all, but you’re not getting free flowers for your girl.”

Castiel laughed, a soft and tumbling fullness rising in his chest. “Believe me, I have no need for your charity. The pansy you gave me was truly appreciated, however,” he tacked on, in case Dean thought he’d been duped out of a potted plant somehow. “My apartment is so much more comfortable with flowers there.”

Dean nodded, sitting on his stool and resting his elbow on the desk. “Everywhere needs plants. They’re like―”

“Children,” Castiel said.

Dean almost choked on his food. He glanced at Castiel, then got his cough under control. “I was gonna say―” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Actually, no. No, you win.”

Castiel took a sandwich in celebration.

“So about these shells,” Dean said, pulling one bag closer and tipping it slightly to see its contents. He picked up one white shape, observing its smooth water-worn edges and wrinkled side. It was only the size of a fingertip, and quite flat. “What exactly did you want me to do with them?”

Castiel sighed, thumbing crumbs away from his mouth. “It’s up to you. I thought maybe some kind of window display.” He gestured towards the window behind Dean, which currently held a dazzling show of various pink blooms, paper and streamers draped and stapled to the coloured cloth at the sides.

Castiel had known the display to change every few days, having passed the shop often since living in the area. It commonly had a seasonal theme, his personal favourites always being the Halloween and Christmas displays. The Valentine’s Day was the most traditional, always red hearts, always red roses.

“Hmm,” Dean murmured, eyes on his sandwich as he turned back to Castiel. “I guess we could do a kind of seaside theme. But I only changed the window yesterday, so...” He shrugged, then licked his lips and looked up at Castiel. “You’re sticking around, right? Gonna help me put it up?”

“Will I be paid for my time?” Castiel asked.

Dean hesitated, lips mouthing on a silent word of uncertainty.

Castiel bowed his head, shaking it. “There isn’t― I mean... I was telling a joke.”

Dean hummed a laugh, a fist over his mouth as Castiel looked shyly at him through his lashes. “Well, you got me. Real smooth. I guess I could pay you in sandwiches,” Dean said, shoving the half-empty bag towards Castiel.

Castiel laughed again, a foreign and unbelievably pleasant twist in his stomach. It ached, and he met Dean’s eye, feeling the squint pulling at the skin around his own eyes.

Dean was watching Castiel, and he bit his lip as he grinned too, a shade lifting from his face. “You know, you laugh real nice, Cas. You been practising or something?” he asked, putting his weight on his hands as he stood, leaning on the desk. “‘cause last time, I recall you being about as lame as a rubber goose, so - heh - _some_ thing’s changed.”

Castiel tilted his head, still smiling as Dean came out to join him in the open space of the shop’s floor. “Not much.”

“Going well with Daphne, I guess,” Dean said, grabbing for the bags of shells.

Castiel wanted to correct Dean: not Daphne. But perhaps it was Daphne. Perhaps it was everything, Dean included. However, without a definitive reason for Castiel’s easy laughter, he said nothing, just watched Dean trickle a small handful of grey shells into his palm, making them clink.

“I’ve got some blu-tack,” Dean said, poking his glasses up his nose, before rubbing a single shell between his forefinger and thumb. “Could stick ‘em to something.” His gaze searched the room, over blossoms and heaving rainbow blooms, before ending his travels on the single white wall on the left of the shop.

There, a hip-height shelf was stuffed with potted plants, their leaves dangling against each other, some taller plants curving out of the shelf to stretch for the light. Above the shelf there was nothing, only speckles of dirt and perhaps the odd smear of moss.

Dean scattered the shells back into their bag, then clapped his hands once in initiation of the new task. “All right,” he said, a determination in his voice. “What d’you think, some sort of pattern? A picture?” He turned his face towards Castiel, who simply couldn’t stop smiling at the way Dean looked at his job: he had purpose, and had every intention of enjoying what was to come. “Any ideas?”

“An angel?”

“How about a dick,” Dean said, at the same time.

They looked at each other, and both their smiles stretched into wide grins, a surge riling Castiel’s insides into another gleeful chuckle.

A beat passed, and then, as one, they suggested, “Cupid’s bow.”

“Perfect,” Dean said, rubbing his hands together roughly, going to take another sandwich, biting it, then offering it to Castiel with a nod.

Castiel took the sandwich from him, peering at the crescent bite mark that Dean had left, the slices of luncheon meat and lettuce drooping with their own weight. Unwilling to let the sandwich go uneaten, Castiel took his time to enjoy it. He’d bought them from the shop next door to here, and was certain he’d buy from there again; the food was delicious.

Dean went ahead and wiped the wall down with some kind of watery pre-prepared cleaning solution, one foot on a low stepladder. Then he dragged a dry cloth over the flat expanse, leaving the wall gleaming brighter than ever before in the reflected golden sunlight.

Castiel swallowed the last of his third sandwich, then followed Dean’s lead, massaging the clumps of adhesive tack which Dean pulled out of a drawer.

Castiel hummed a soft note as his thumbs sank into the tack, which warmed slowly the more he rolled it. Dean handed him another lot, already squashed by Dean’s thumb, still hot from friction and his fingers.

Castiel’s eyes slid to watch Dean stretching his own tack, pulling threads and rivers with it, tangling it together to squash the moulded tack back into one big ball.

Dean’s fingernails had a line of green below the white, as well as dots of black that Castiel assumed was plant soil. The lines in his palms were long and dainty, each finger thick, yet slender, his knuckles not obvious or protruding. His forefingers were the most pointed, his middle fingers the longest. Castiel watched his wrists turn to take each fingerful of blu-tack and massage it until it was flexible and so, _so_ warm, before he passed it to Castiel, and Castiel could pull the lumps into manageable dots.

“So, uh,” Dean said, breaking the silence of a few minutes. “How was your weekend? I last saw you, what? Monday?” His lips quirked into a brief smile. “You kind of rushed in and out, didn’t really get a chance to catch up.”

Castiel inclined his head, taking a dot of tack off Dean’s offering fingertip. “My weekend was miserable.”

“Oh.”

Castiel gave Dean a soft smile, their elbows brushing as Dean shifted on his feet. “Only due to the quiet of it. Nothing bad happened,” he assured. “Having recently enjoyed company of people whom I actually like, being alone isn’t so comforting any more.”

Dean snuffled. “Well, that’s a far cry from what my life’s being doing, I tell ya.” He cracked a sad grin, head swaying towards Castiel. “My apartment’s filled with people, I think you might’ve noticed.”

“Sarah, your brother, your cat, and Charlie,” Castiel listed.

Dean closed his eyes tight, lifting his face to the dark beams of the ceiling, his exhale making a dangling ghostly lichen breeze about. “If only. Nah, Charlie―” He shook his head, bumping his wrist against Castiel’s as he gave him another small helping of tack. “Charlie doesn’t even live with us, she just _lives_ with us.”

Dean pulled away from the desk, beckoning Castiel with a single finger. Castiel prised a scoop of tacking dots into an open hand, taking them over to the shelf, where Dean set down the two bags of shells.

“There’s me, and my little brother Sammy,” Dean explained, eyes on the wall, presumably visualising the final display. “And Sammy’s wife, Sarah. She’s the one looking after the devil cat, but we all have to suffer the little shit’s antics.”

Dean scooted back to the front desk, swiping up a chewed blunt pencil, then going back to the wall and poking a starting point with a fingertip. Castiel watched him draw a curved line like a bow and arrow’s belly, then a taut string pulled back behind it.

As he drew in a perpendicular line for their rendition of one of Cupid’s arrows, Dean continued, “Then there’s Sam’s friend Gabriel. I call him _Sam’s_ friend because I kind of hate the bastard, but sometimes, I dunno - he has his better moments. Right now, he’s seeing this girl from work, right, his boss. And all they ever do together is have threesomes.”

Dean shrugged, stepping back to admire his outline on the wall, then going forward to correct some wonky lines, going over them, pressing a little harder than before.

“I’m pretty sure the threesome thing was Kali’s idea,” Dean went on, “but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t find, y’know, other parts of a relationship outside of the sex.”

“That’s important to you,” Castiel said, the sound of his voice making Dean turn to look at him. “Having something in a relationship outside of... physical intimacy.”

Dean scoffed. “Well, yeah, obviously. I mean, I’m all up for the one-night-only kind of fling, but when you’re actually committing to someone, it’s just common decency to actually care about them outside of the weekend circus acts.”

Castiel offered his palm, and Dean pinched a group of tacking dots from him, his fingertip only just brushing the skin of Castiel’s hand. Castiel watched him pin the dot to the back of a shell, then push it to a random empty space on the wall.

Both men moved back a few steps, admiring the single shell. Its curved edges cast a vague and strangely-shaped shadow to its right, the glow from the window smoothed over one edge only. Dean sighed in a small amount of satisfaction, then took another dot and placed it on another shell.

“C’mon, help me shimmy this place up,” he said, calling over his shoulder to Castiel.

Castiel went to the front desk, scooping all the blu-tack into his hands and taking it to Dean, mostly mushed together again. Dean muttered a word of thanks, and went back to pinning white shells side-by-side.

“So tell me about your crap weekend, then,” Dean said, bumping his hip against Castiel’s as they stood together, shoes touching the dangling plants from the shelf. “I see you went and bought jeans. Smart move, huh?”

Castiel looked down, feeling very little in the way of anything as he saw loose blue denim around his legs. He was used to black dress trousers, not thick, tense fabric that poked at him when he moved. “I went on a date with Daphne, and decided I’d never wear jeans again. But then I remembered...” He looked at Dean, seeing those green eyes flick from Castiel’s legs to his face, pupils made tiny in the light. “You recommended jeans, and while I didn’t like the ones I bought at first, I supposed I ought to try them properly. I bought better ones this time.”

He looked to Dean’s legs, seeing the frayed hems and the slashes in the knees, the gaps whitened and threaded thin. “Yours look so much more comfortable, though.”

Dean gave a huff, pressing a firm thumb to the wall, leaving another shell behind like a fingerprint. “They take some wearing in, like leather.”

Castiel hummed a slow agreement. He put down everything from his hands, feeling a sheen of sweat making the tack slimy. He shed his trenchcoat, taking its loose form in his hands and resting it over the front desk, beside the bag of leftover sandwiches. His suit jacket followed, and he now stood in his most comfortable white dress shirt, his blue tie still in place around his neck, as always.

Dean tutted to himself, then removed his apron, throwing it across the small room and letting it flutter to collapse atop Castiel’s coat. Dean’s flannel shirtsleeves got rolled to his elbows once more, and Castiel watched him, watched his hands twisting around the coloured fabric, a low and comfortable warmth simmering inside him at the sight of Dean without his apron.

Their shields were gone. Castiel could see what had happened here: Castiel had removed his own security, and perhaps subconsciously, Dean had removed his, too. This wasn’t work for Dean any more, this was for fun. He was socialising with Castiel as a friend.

Dean met Castiel’s eye, and his shoulder shifted a little towards him. “What?” Dean asked.

Castiel smiled, turning his attention to the shells. “That red suits you.”

Dean looked at his shirt, then at Castiel. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Castiel passed back, raising his chin.

He would have liked to say more, but his words collapsed upon his smile. He saw nothing but shells - yet his mind’s eye was papered with the image of Dean watching him smiling. He could feel his gaze, and an invisible touch in the soft breath Dean gave.

“Let’s... let’s get this shape filled in,” Dean said at last, a click of saliva letting Castiel visualise Dean licking his lips, pink tongue sliding over his shapely mouth.

Dean initiated the task, pressing darker shells in a smooth line around the first edge of the pencilled bow. He left minuscule gaps between each of them, which would be undetectable from further away.

Castiel eased closer, his forearm crossing Dean’s middle as he reached for the smaller bag of dark shells. Dean breathed in, and Castiel felt his arm touch his body, muscle firm, t-shirt wrinkled.

Castiel shimmered with arousal that he knew he had no right to feel. He was intoxicated by it, though, and he stood fiddling with the one shell he held, taking some fast-lengthening seconds to indulge in the swooping feeling in his body. Heat bristled under his skin, and he allowed no barrier before he let the image of Dean’s smile colour his mind, the man’s lashes fluttering as the ridiculously green eyes swept over Castiel’s body, admiring―

“This is no way to work,” Dean said, firmly, and Castiel almost gasped as he saw Dean’s smooth forehead and his thick black glasses frames right in front of him, his head down. He was touching Castiel’s wrists, fingers dragging on his skin, fingertips roughened by blu-tack residue.

Something beautiful was brewing in Castiel’s lower half, shoots of sensation spreading from his wrists outward. He looked down, finally seeing what Dean was doing: the buttons on Castiel’s shirtsleeves were now undone, and Dean was folding them up, wriggling the right one towards Castiel’s elbow, folding it tightly so it stayed put, before doing the same on the left.

His hands shifted so confidently, no hesitation. Castiel only hoped he wouldn’t finish and look down any further, in case Castiel’s excitement had become visible.

He’d never loved anyone’s hands like this before. Nobody ever moved like Dean, nor touched Castiel like he did.

Castiel’s eyes held firm on Dean’s face as Dean moved away, not meeting Castiel’s eye.

“There,” Dean said, a very tender blush in his cheeks. “There, now you don’t look like you’re pushing paperwork around.”

“That is what I usually do,” Castiel said, momentarily taken aback by the low, sinking note under his own voice. Perhaps it was lust. “I fill out a lot of forms, write a lot of signatures.”

Dean breathed a laugh, the blush gone from his face already, and Castiel wondered if it had ever really been there. “Sounds like hell.”

“It’s not particularly interesting, no.”

“But at least,” Dean said, affixing another dark shell to the wall, rocking into the movement, “it means you’re safe a lot of the time, right?”

“Safe?”

Dean swallowed, lips quivering as he looked at his handful of shells. “Like... nobody bad comes after you.”

“Bad in what way?”

Dean’s grin was uneasy, and it faded. He still didn’t make eye contact with Castiel, which struck Castiel as odd.

“Bad, as in, people who want to hurt you. Like, um, for instance, if you were with Daphne, they might see Daphne as the kind of person... that they might want to hurt. To get something.”

Castiel frowned deeply, the trembling warmth all but gone from his gut. “Why are you asking?”

Dean shook his head quickly, turning away. “Ugh, just forget about it. It’s something I was thinking last night, it’s... Nah, it’s not important.” He waved Castiel off, swallowing again before going to put more shells in place. He’d almost completed the bow part of the design, while Castiel was still adding the white background.

Castiel pondered what Dean could have meant by that sort of question. Did he somehow fear for Daphne’s safety? Was there something Castiel - _Emanuel_ \- ought to know?

“Dean―”

“Just forget about it!” Dean snapped, then dragged in a sharp breath, a frown quickly becoming the only expression he wore.

Castiel’s surprise abated as Dean glanced at him, something downtrodden in his eyes. “Sorry, man,” he said, gently. “There’s just, I dunno. There’s been a lot of shit in my life, and...” He tossed what remained of the darker shells back into the bag, picking blu-tack out from under his fingernails. “And I don’t mean to drag you into it. Just sometimes, it _plagues_ me, you know?”

Castiel put down his shells, ignoring the few that tumbled to the tiles underfoot. He moved to rest his hand on Dean’s shoulder, comfort spilling from him without the need for words. Dean’s lower lip was shaking almost imperceptibly, and Castiel fought the urge to press his finger to it, to soothe.

Dean gave a sigh after a few quiet seconds, and taking the cue, Castiel rubbed his hand a few times against Dean’s arm, palm burned by the friction of his flannel shirt. Then he moved away, and Dean seemed to follow the touch for just a moment, before sniffing sharply and returning to their task.

Barely another word was shared between them, not until the white shells were gone, and the wall was radiant with disjointed, uneven light shining off the shells, the sun hotter and brighter than it probably it had been all year.

In that time, two customers came and went. Both times, Castiel kept his head down, hearing Dean’s explanation to each of them. “That’s my buddy Cas, we’re just in the middle of an art project. Nice, huh? Yeah, it’s gonna be a Cupid’s bow. Ha-ha. Yeah, like the name of the shop.” Castiel didn’t watch Dean arranging flowers for his customers, nor did he look to see their faces. He didn’t want anyone to recognise him.

It was a miracle that Dean didn’t already know who he was. Maybe Emanuel wasn’t often in the papers, his face rarely photographed - but his name was known. People knew his family name in this city, it was common knowledge to the majority. They knew what power his name held. The fact that Castiel had managed to stay hidden, practically starting a new life, here, in this shop... Well, that was a blessing. And a cruel one, should the veil ever fall.

Once the two of them were alone again, Castiel breathed a sigh of relief.

Dean and Castiel stood on the far side of the shop, fern fronds cool on the backs of their necks, as they watched the wall’s artwork become glossier the longer they looked at it. The shape of Cupid’s bow and arrow was a fine contrast of dark lines against the white shells, the texture both lumpen and smooth at once. The arrow pointed towards the window, as if shooting its intention of love out into the world.

Dean hummed a light and happy note, then bumped his shoulder against Castiel’s. “We make a good team. Should do more artsy-fartsy things together sometime.”

Castiel turned his chin down and laughed quietly, always shy about his artwork. His father was too critical, and nobody appreciated the subject matter but Castiel himself. He would never show anyone his paintings.

He only gathered at that very moment that, standing here with Dean, he’d shared a valid part of himself that he thought he would never share.

Slowly, Castiel raised his eyes to Dean’s lips. They were parted in a faint smile, and Castiel was glad they were no longer downturned by hurt. But now, he wanted to touch them for a different reason.

But, Daphne...

He looked away, a tight smile tensing his cheeks. “Yes. I’m sure anything you try your hand at would be beautiful, Dean,” he muttered, loosening his tie as he wandered back to the desk. This place felt too small, the air too thick.

He couldn’t afford to feel like this, not for Dean. Dean was all wrong for him.

“I should be going,” Castiel said, brushing his sticky hands together. “My father - he, uh, he owns some horses, they’re racing this afternoon. I ought to be there.”

Dean loped after Castiel, then stood motionless between Castiel and the door. “When’s the race?”

Castiel looked to the clock resting on the shelf; it was gone two o’clock. Castiel’s gut again felt a pang of something positively bright as he realised he’d spent so many hours with Dean today. He turned his gaze back to Dean, then shook his head. “In quite a while from now. But I need to get ready. The show is meant to be televised.”

“Well―” Dean said, then clamped his teeth down on his lower lip, leaving a mark. He held a finger up to Castiel, instructing him to wait, and he moved around him, heading for the alcove of space behind the desk. Castiel watched him reach for an old Bakelite telephone, its circular rotary dial turning under Dean’s fast finger as his other hand held the receiver.

Castiel heard the tinny ringing sound from where he stood, three feet away, then heard a small voice speaking at the other end of the connection.

“Yeah, hey, Sammy, it’s me,” Dean said, turning to look at Castiel while adjusting his glasses. The sun cast a halo across his shoulders, fine hairs of golden standing tall above his head. Castiel never noticed it drying, but now it was as well-styled as it ever was.

Dean pulled a dramatic face. “I don’t care about your flipping SpaghettiOs, Sammy. If I took a guess, it was Gabriel. He left the cheese grater on the counter as well.” Dean shook his head roughly, growling to himself. “Jeez, okay, that’s not what I called for. I’m calling ‘cause I need you down here, pronto, because Cas has gotta leave.”

There was a pause, and Castiel heard a complaint from Sam that Dean cut short. “Yeah, okay. All right, fine, I’m sorry, but sometimes art comes at the expense of five minutes of lawyering.” Another pause, then Dean grinned at the floor. “You ain’t charging me a dime, let alone by the hour, you ugly son-of-a-bitch.”

He hung up the phone. Castiel stared blank-faced as Dean sighed, removed his flannel overshirt, then flapped the hem of his t-shirt to let some air against his lower back. The repeated gusts of it made the strands of his hair shimmer like grass in a summer field, and Castiel toyed with the thought of asking if he could touch it. It looked soft, and fully graspable, like it would fill his hands and be strong enough to tug on, thread his fingers through, spread to cradle Dean’s head...

This was getting out of hand, Castiel thought. He almost chuckled at the unintentional hand pun, but kept a straight face, since he had no intention of explaining that joke to Dean.

“You’ve got your fancy phone on you, right?” Dean asked, pointing a vague finger towards Castiel’s pockets.

Castiel nodded, retrieving his iPhone from the front of his jeans. “Why? And why do you need Sam?”

Dean grinned as he wandered towards Castiel, hand outstretched to take the phone. “I need his photography skills. Go stand over by the thing,” Dean muttered, flicking a line of fingers towards the newly-decorated wall.

“You want me to be in the picture?”

Dean’s cheek clicked as he grinned lopsidedly. “C’mon, man, artists and artwork should be preserved together. I just need a camera tripod, and Sam is six-foot-whatever of exactly that.”

Castiel fiddled with his rolled-up shirtsleeves, concerned that he didn’t look quite as presentable as he should. The hours spent moving in the humidity had not been kind to his morning spray of antiperspirant, nor the placement of his hair. He couldn’t see himself, but he could sense how ruffled he looked.

“Dude, stop that,” Dean tutted, slapping Castiel’s hand off his shirt. “You look fine. Plus, remember to smile, all right?”

Castiel met his eye uncertainly. This was... informal. Informality was unfamiliar, to Castiel and Emanuel alike.

A shadow crossed the glass of the front door, and the bell chimed Sam’s arrival. He ducked the door frame instinctively, even though there was a good number of inches of leeway above him. He smiled as his eyes landed on the wall, then on his brother.

“Nice,” he said, nodding in approval.

Dean edged around the wheelbarrow planter to hand the phone to his brother. “Just snap a few shots, quick, ‘cause Cas has got horses to see to.”

“You have horses?” Sam asked, grinning a little as he raised the phone to eye-level.

Castiel almost startled as he felt a warm, firm arm around his shoulders, but a glance to his left allowed him to settle: Dean’s eyes were sweet, his smile soft. He looked at Castiel so tenderly that Castiel honestly - just for a moment - thought Dean was going to kiss him.

The moment passed, and Castiel turned his face to the taller brother. “They’re my father’s horses, but I named them all.”

“Cool.”

The camera made its shutter noise, and Sam lowered the phone to examine the image. Then he raised it again, and wiggled two of his fingers. On his cue, Dean dragged Castiel a foot to the left, his arm dropping lower, taking him around his waist instead.

“So, you’re pretty rich, huh,” Dean said, giving Castiel’s hip a quick squeeze. “You like a, what, an heir or something?”

Castiel tipped his head down, frowning as he heard the shutter go before he was ready. “Yes. No. My father is... Well...”

He would have told Dean and Sam then and there exactly who his father was. But in the forefront of his mind sat the knowledge that if he told them, his real name would be obvious.

No, he couldn’t do it. Dean would see the lie he’d told, and Castiel was so enjoying the feel of his hand on his hip, arm across his lower back, shoulder pressed behind his own. Castiel would remain ‘Castiel’ to Dean, and ‘Emanuel’ to the rest of the world.

“Cas?” Sam said, mouth moving oddly on the new moniker. “Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, but, uh...” He pulled a twitchy smile, “Could you at least look a little bit happy?”

Castiel’s lips set in a line, and he blinked his gaze towards the front window, where sun blazed like a sea of flames across the pink display. “My apologies.”

“Cas, what’s up?” Dean asked, his arm sliding off Castiel’s body. “Hey, you wanna do this the fun way?” His voice shot away again as he spoke to Sam, “Hold on a second, lemme grab the stepladder.”

Castiel’s head turned to watch Dean thump the stepladder two feet along the wall, lining it up with the shells depicting the taut bowstring. With an enthusiastic hand, he beckoned to Castiel, then pointed him towards the other end of the shelf.

“You stand there,” he said, “I’ll act like I’m pulling the string, and you... I dunno, you act like you’re getting shot in the heart.” Dean’s playful grin set a fire in Castiel’s whole body, but he did his best to hide his responding smile. Smiles like that could be less welcome, since they certainly weren’t appropriate to the vision of his own future.

Sam chuckled, raising the phone and aiming the camera. Castiel watched him, then watched Dean clamber two steps up the stocky ladder, one foot resting below, arms raised to mime nocking the arrow.

“Up a little with your right hand, Dean,” Sam instructed. “Uhh, raise your chin, I can’t see your jaw.”

Dean did as he was told, but Castiel just stood there, feeling hotter and hotter under Dean’s unwavering gaze, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“Your turn, Cas,” Sam said, cheerfully. “Strike a pose or something.”

Castiel hesitated, becoming a deer in the headlights. Slowly, he raised his hands in tentative surrender.

Sam laughed, and Castiel heard the shutter click.

“Cas,” Dean hissed, and Castiel looked to meet his eye, now unafraid of anything, outside of his own camera lens pointed at him. “Cas, just feel it. Don’t be shy or whatever.” Dean’s arms were starting to shake from holding them up, but he displayed a monumental effort to keep them from dropping. “Look, it’s just us here. We can take a really great picture.”

“I’ve never done a photo like this,” Castiel said, wishing it hadn’t come out sounding so much like a complaint. “This is my first time.”

“Well, you are not gonna die a virgin, not on my watch,” Dean said, winking. “Think about Daphne, okay? I’m Cupid. You’re you, and you’re getting hit by the love truck. Right in the ribs. Bam.” Dean closed one eye, his aim focused fully on Castiel’s heart.

Castiel’s heart fluttered at the attention; Dean could have been holding it right in his hand, just then.

Castiel clutched his heart, almost laughing as he curled his fingers against his white shirt, feeling his own heartbeat, feeling Dean’s nocked arrow pointed straight at him.

In the same way as with birthday cakes, he forgot to make a wish. He’d blow out the candles, but he would always be so caught up in everyone looking at him, singing his name, patting his back, that even if someone had told him moments before to make a wish, he would have overlooked it. Every time, every year.

He didn’t think of Daphne as Sam took the picture. He didn’t think of anything outside of the beat of his heart, because Dean shot that love dart from Cupid’s arrow, and it hit Castiel square in his chest.

The sound of flowers in their buckets seemed to fill the air for a little while, and then it all fell away, and Dean was stepping off the ladder, shaking his arms out, and Sam flipped Castiel’s iPhone into standby and handed it over.

Castiel stared at the device in his hand like it was foreign, and put it into his pocket without fully understanding why he was doing it.

He was in love. He was just in love with the wrong person.

“Anyway, so. We’ll catch your horse race tonight, Cas,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his head with a slight yawn. “What channel and when?”

Castiel grappled with his more logical thoughts, and finally came out with an answer. “The... racing channel. It will be pre-recorded, I think. It’ll show sometime this evening; live betting will be finished by then.”

“We don’t have the sports channels,” Sam muttered to Dean, with a fast apologetic glance to Castiel.

Dean cleared his throat, edging his shoulders between Castiel and Sam. Castiel strained to hear, but Dean clearly told his brother, “Yeah, we do, actually.”

“No, we don’t. We only have cable, and our reception is about as good as your prawn dumplings.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dean tensed, but hit Sam on the arm and then went on, “No, I got―”

Dean paused to look over his shoulder. He saw Castiel standing three feet behind him, and offered him an awkward smile, before he rounded his arm behind Sam’s and tugged him further back into the shop, knocking away a dragging frond of plant life that was attempting to crawl into his shirt.

However, his hushed voice could not be muffled completely in such a small area, and Castiel still heard the conversation. He didn’t care he was eavesdropping, since his curiosity squelched any other thought he might have entertained.

“I hacked it. We get satellite, through our neighbour’s connection. There were already wires done up, all I had to do was split and re-route it. Took me, like, fifteen minutes.”

Sam’s face grew stormy, brow weighed down with unspoken frustrations. He slapped Dean across the ear, and Castiel almost stepped forward to intervene - but Dean was completely unhurt, only moving to fix the position of his glasses.

“Dean, are you out of your _mind_?!” Sam spared a glance to Castiel, then turned around, shoving Dean by the back until the two of them were almost in the far corner of the shop. “You’re breaking the freaking law already?! It’s been two months! You can’t― _We_ can’t afford to blow this. I need to get my degree, Dean!”

“Jeez, I know, I know! Sammy, it’s nothing, it’s just saving us a couple hundred bucks, that’s all. Nobody fucking cares, or they wouldn’t have made it so easy!”

“Dean, for someone so _idiotically_ smart, you are so - ugh! - so unbelievably _thick_! It’s not easy takings, what you do, it’s just easy for you because you know what you’re doing!”

Dean gave a bodily shrug, careless. Castiel only smiled, because he appreciated knowing the man he was falling for was every part worthy of being his equal, no matter how much wrong lay amongst that fact.

Sam sighed, long and slow, raising a tight hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Does Benny know about this?”

Dean laughed sharply, loud enough to match a regular volume. But he shook his head, and again his voice fell to a whisper as he answered, “You really think I’m that stupid? Benny’s the sh―”

“Sheriff, I know,” Sam snapped, tousling his long hair out of his face. A deep frown shadowed his expression, and his eyes shifted fast as he looked at the floor. “And before you say it, Dean, I’m not overreacting. This is our fourth chance. Not our second, not our third. Our _fourth_.” He said the word as if the universe rested upon it, endless wonder and impossibility weighing it down.

“And yadda yadda, it’s all my fault for screwing up―”

“Or just screwing in general, let’s leave it at that.”

“―and you don’t want to mess it up again because you’re actually happy here, blah blah blah.” Dean folded his arms, the muscles in his shoulders filling out his t-shirt fully. “I know, Sammy,” he added, softer this time, his voice so quiet that Castiel almost didn’t hear the words. “I know, and I want to stick around, too. Charlie’s here, Gabriel’s here, Sarah has a real job here. Yeah. I don’t want to blow this, either.”

Dean turned his face, and his eyes met Castiel’s. Neither of them were surprised; Dean seemed to already know that Castiel was listening. Dean sighed, then swept his slow gaze to rest on his brother’s face, watching him. “We got good things going here, and honest-to-God, I have no intention of fucking this up, especially not over some crappy TV channels.” He laughed quietly, then took in a breath that gave him another few inches of height.

Shaking his head, he turned away from the sulking Sam, and strode back towards Castiel. Still speaking to Sam, he said, “But give it one more night, I think. We’ll watch Cas’ pony show, then I’ll toss the junk out the window, how about that?”

Castiel smiled warmly as Dean rested his hand on his forearm. He could sense the light layer of sweat on Dean’s palm. Dean still breathed with tension, but with a last squeeze on Castiel’s wrist, he moved away.

Sam stood a few feet away, hands on his hips. “Cas,” he said, a harsh note in his voice. Castiel looked up, innocent. Sam’s smile was forced, stretching his lips for no more than a second. “I, we, me and Dean both - we need you to promise not to repeat any of this. Anything you heard. Just, keep it between us.”

Castiel looked to Dean, who was packing up what was left over of the shells. Dean paused, closing his eyes. Castiel could name his expression as regretful, perhaps longing, longing for this discussion to have never taken place. Because Castiel already knew there were things Dean didn’t want to share. Things about his past.

If anything, the fact that these things were now shared, within small limits... it proved to Castiel that between himself and Dean, he was not the only one who felt a connection. Castiel had been unsure, but now, there was no question that he had moved beyond the realm of ‘customer’. Perhaps a friend now; certainly a confidant.

The crime may have appeared trivial to Castiel, but, in knowing about it, he felt special. It had been so long since he’d felt special.

“I will not tell another soul,” Castiel said, with complete honesty. “It may even reassure you to know that outside the two of you...” he sighed, “there is nobody I would truly care to tell.”

Dean huffed through his nose, a laugh that never was. “Thanks, Cas.”

“And while I would enjoy finding out the rest of this very dramatic outlook on your lives, I really do need to be going.”

Dean nodded, meeting Castiel’s eye and tilting his head a little, a faint smile on his lips. “We’ll be watching for you.”

Castiel nodded, settling a final look upon the mural of shells across the left wall. “I had a good time today. Thank you, Dean.”

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

Leaving Dean staring at the wall, Castiel followed Sam’s guiding arm out into the street. Sam closed the door behind them both, and the scent of blossom no longer filled Castiel’s body on every breath.

“Cas, before you go,” Sam said, and Castiel waited. Sam ruffled his hair over his forehead, squinting upward at the bright sky, then looking back to Castiel. “Uh, nothing, really. I put my number into your phone. And - just take care, all right?”

Castiel inclined his head in thanks, watching Sam ease back inside the shop, the door’s glass panel wobbling as he closed it against the frame.

A strange afternoon.

But beautiful.


	5. Beer Night

Dean’s feet bounced lightly up the stairs as he made his way to the apartment, and he shut the door behind himself with a smile, unable to shake the gentle cocoon of blue he’d carried with him all day. Castiel’s scent in his mind was more potent than all the flowers in his shop, and even when that scent was nothing but sweat, it still stung his senses like a glorious poison.

“Gabe, you’re home early,” Dean called over the living room, seeing Gabriel sprawled on the couch, the red suede doing nothing for his peachy complexion. He looked like a ragdoll over its back, and he lifted his head when Dean spoke.

“Oh, yeah,” Gabriel murmured, either in a pre-nap or a post-nap mugginess. “Yeah, I was allowed the evening off.”

“But it’s Friday,” Dean said, frowning. “That’s a decent business night for you. God, don’t tell me you’re fired, I can’t deal with you at home all hours. I like when you’re gone.”

“You’re nothing but a joy to have around too, Dean,” Gabriel replied, standing up and starting to stretch as Dean went to grab a bowl of Fruit Loops. “You’re all sunshine and rainbows, up to but not including the empty milk cartons you leave in the fridge. Not to mention the empty boxes you put back in the cupboard.”

Dean guiltily removed the empty box of Fruit Loops he’d just slid back between the other cereals. “It’s a reminder.”

“A _note_ is a reminder. An empty box, that’s the equivalent of those civilisations where they leave dead people’s heads on the lawn as a warning to invaders.”

Dean poured a generous helping of milk into his bowl, leaving enough in the carton for most of a serving. Not quite enough to satisfy, but just enough that whoever took out milk next time would estimate that they had enough for a full bowl of cereal. So long as that guy wasn’t Dean himself, he didn’t much care how annoying it was. He hoped it would be Gabriel.

The apartment became filled with nothing but the sound of Gabriel’s clicking back joints.

“Is Sam home?” Dean asked, carrying his cereal to the couch.

“Evening class,” Gabriel replied, while bending to touch his toes.

“Right, right.” Dean recalled a timetable being pinned to his bedroom wall, but he’d barely glanced at it in weeks. The cat had taken to sleeping in his room almost 24/7, and that left Dean very little breathing space. The couch was now Dean’s bedroom, and a pile of pillows and blankets was bundled at one end, half spread across the floorboards, probably moved by accident. Dean kicked it all back together, then sat down firmly beside it, crunching his cereal loud enough that he didn’t have to hear Gabriel farting.

He toed for the TV remote, glad it was within reach of his foot. The first channel that flipped on was something drastically colourful, the characters fabric-y, presumably puppets.

“Oh, Sesame Street,” Gabriel laughed, flumping across the other end of the couch, his tracksuit hem flapping Dean on the thigh. “You ever watch this before?”

Dean shook his head, slurping milk out of his spoon. “Me and Sammy never got much downtime as kids. Every pop culture reference you hear me sprouting nowadays is something I only picked up in the past three years or so.”

“I bet Charlie gave you a good chunk of that.”

“Well, yeah.” Dean grinned at the last green Fruit Loop, tipping the bowl back and letting the soggy cereal swim into his mouth on a rivulet of milk. He squished it between his tongue and palate, and shrugged. “Charlie’s added a good chunk of everything to my life.”

Gabriel snorted, snatching the remote and turning up the volume. “True dat. Now shut up, Bert and Ernie are having a moment.”

✿

By the time Sam got home, the party was in full swing. By most people’s standards, it would barely count as a party at all. There were only four of them - all females curiously absent - but there was a crate of beer, courtesy of Benny. When there was beer, Dean was plenty happy to call it a party.

The lights were off, the TV’s volume had been turned right up, and the coffee table in front of the couch was being used as a snack bar.

The racing commentator went on and on with his fantastically tongue-twisting drawl, and Dean barely caught anything out of the run-on sentences. Gabriel, however, was totally in the zone, one beer in his hand, fist in the air, shouting constantly about the horse named Gabriel’s Hot Wings. If Dean could pull one fact out of the chaos their living room had become in the past hour, it was that racing horses had the _stupidest_ names.

His money was all on the mare named R.D. Double-Dash. His reason for betting on her - or at least the reason he conveyed to Sam - was that her name was reminiscent of a lady’s cup size. But had Charlie been present, she would have known full well that Dean was secretly enamoured with an animated pony with a similar name. Some secrets would never leave Charlie’s apartment.

Benny was about as quiet as ever, but Dean didn’t miss his dastardly chuckle every time Dean, Gabriel, or Sam lost a penny on their dud bets. Benny was all geared up on the ugly grey stallion with the rider like a brick, and while none of them really understood all the weight-class talk that went on, Benny’s bet seemed pretty safe.

Sam bet on the horse called Devil’s Antlers. He won. Consistently.

Dean had his eye out for Castiel, but not once did the camera show his face. Dean couldn’t be sure which horses belonged to his father, either. While Dean never spoke his woes aloud, he could tell that Sam saw his disappointment by the time the show ended, and cut away to a ridiculously long ad break.

Sam had probably been looking for Cas too, and that fact made Dean smile internally. He liked that Cas and Sam got along well enough. At least, that way, theirs would be a far cry from Sam and Benny’s relationship. Throughout the whole show, neither Benny nor Sam spoke a word to each other, not even to offer the bowl of Cheetos.

Sam didn’t like the power Benny had. With a phone call, Dean could be in jail. And just like that, everything they’d worked for would be over. What Sam never seemed to grasp, Dean thought to himself as he wandered into the kitchen to grab some guacamole dip, was that Benny was Dean’s _friend_. Sam’s impression seemed to be that Dean sucked up to Benny, trying to get on his good side.

It wasn’t like that. Dean and Benny got along like a house on fire, but it was so hard to show that to Sam, when all Sam did in Benny’s presence was glare, clear his throat pointedly, and pretty much just act like a child about the whole situation.

Dean slapped the empty guacamole container into the trash can, taking a full bowl over to the couch. He tried not to think about how Sam let Gabriel crawl into his lap, giving him a fake (real) lap dance.

Benny turned the volume down on the crummy infomercial that was playing in the background. Dean sat down at his side, finally able to hear what Benny was saying.

“Whose damn phone is that?”

Gabriel was singing a tuneless stripper song, hips grinding into Sam’s lap. Sam laughed, shoving helplessly at Gabriel - but through the abhorrent noise of all of that, Dean heard the buzz of a cellphone, too.

“Guys, shut up,” Dean complained, hitting Gabriel on the shoulder. “Sam, I think that’s yours.”

Sam shoved Gabriel off him at last, hands flapping to pat at his pockets. Dean took a swig of beer and looked far, far away from Gabriel’s crotch as he gyrated in his face.

A door on the other side of the room opened, and every man on and around the couch turned to see Sarah walking across the living area, fingers slinging her silky hair over one shoulder. Kali followed, her stern eye on Gabriel.

What didn’t make sense about this picture was that the two of them were headed _out_.

“How long have you been home?” Dean asked, directing his question at Sarah, even though his eyes were on Kali’s rumpled work shirt and her loosened bow tie.

“I just dropped back to take Kali out,” Sarah answered, shrugging on her blue trenchcoat. Kali harrumphed at her side, dark bags under her eyes telling Dean she’d been trying to sleep and their noise had disturbed her.

Dean and Sam simultaneously turned their combined gaze on Gabriel, who grinned sheepishly, shrugging. Dean twisted over to Sarah and Kali again, but the front door slammed closed, and it was just the boys alone in the apartment.

“No threesome?” Sam asked, kicking Gabriel in the shin, then ducking his head to look at his phone.

Gabriel actually blushed, his smile making his pudgy cheeks even pudgier.

“Ugh,” Dean rolled his eyes to the high sloped ceiling. “Finally.”

“I’ll have you know, big boy, that Kali and I have been perfectly happy in our relationship for much longer than you’ve called yourself Dean Wesson.”

“To be honest, Gabe,” Dean said, catching Benny’s grin and sharing a chuckle, “you haven’t quite grasped how short a time me and Sam have been Wessons.”

Gabriel folded his arms. “Well, how long?”

Benny cleared his throat. “Classified information, shortstop.”

“Who are you calling shortstop, you big overgrown teddy bear?! I bet your mom still―”

“Hey, Dean, look at this,” Sam interrupted. He sounded like he’d been waiting a while to shut Gabriel up, and was not alone in this desire. Benny grumbled and headed for the kitchen.

Dean gratefully leaned over the couch, took Sam’s phone and pulled it into his hands. The screen showed the photo he’d taken with Castiel earlier, and just seeing it made Dean’s face shatter into a grin.

It had come out perfectly: from the angle of the camera, with Dean and Castiel posing, it looked like Cupid’s bow was sitting comfortably in Dean’s hands, one hand holding the curved handle, one pulling the string back. The arrow pointed unwaveringly at Castiel’s heart, and the look on his face... Goddamn, he definitely looked like he’d been shot. Dean knew what a man in love looked like, and they always had that fierce yet dopey desperation in their eyes.

Cas really had it bad for Daphne. It was pretty obvious now, even if it hadn’t been this afternoon.

Dean swallowed, vaguely concerned that the smile had slipped from his face.

Benny’s shoulder rested against Dean’s as he leaned over the back of the couch. “Who’s that?”

“Uh―” Dean raised his hand a little so Benny could see. “That’s Cas. He’s a... friend of mine. Met him a week or so ago,” he said, lowering the phone back to his lap. “He’s pretty sweet. He comes in and buys flowers for his girlfriend.”

“Strange,” Benny said, slowly.

“What is?”

“You say his name’s Cas?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth lifted. “Yeah. Cas-tiel. Real nice name, huh?”

“Hm,” Benny said. “It’s strange, though, I thought I knew him for a minute there. Met him someplace.”

“What’s with the tacky pose?” Gabriel interjected.

Dean glared up at Gabriel, who was craning to see from above. “Like you can lecture me on tacky, Mister Matching Pant Suits.”

Gabriel pouted, then snatched the phone. Dean made a grope for it, but Gabriel was only looking at the picture.

Dean sighed, sinking back into the couch. “I dunno,” he supplied to the room at large, in case anyone cared to hear his thoughts. “He’s pretty weird, kinda blunt and Rain-Man-esque, but...” He smirked, thinking of the pool of warmth that always flooded his belly every time Castiel managed a true smile. “Well, he keeps coming back, for one thing. Few more visits and I could call him a regular.”

“Or, you could just _call him_ ,” Sam said. His tone said ‘ _I know something you don’t know_ ’.

Dean’s eyes darted to his brother. “What?”

Sam gestured to Gabriel with his face.

Dean’s eyes landed on Gabriel just as Gabriel opened his mouth to talk. “Yeah, hi, is this Cass-teel?”

“ _Uh. Y- Yes? Who is this?_ ” Castiel replied, his voice amplified by the speakerphone setting.

Dean tried to get out of his seat, but Gabriel stuck his foot in Dean’s crotch, making him curl up in momentary agony as Gabriel went on, “I’m calling on behalf of Wesson and Co., if you could just answer a few questions for me, that’d be great.”

“ _I’m not sure― Sam?_ ”

Sam bellowed, “It’s a trap!” but he too found Gabriel’s foot in his crotch. Sam kicked him off balance, and Gabriel stumbled, grunting as he stood up straight again.

“Let’s start with the easy ones. You a top or a bottom? You into any kinky stuff? You like dick, right? Because there’s one biiiiig hunk of chewy Wesson ass right here who wants a roll with you―”

Gabriel took a punch and landed on the floor, still laughing, as Dean pried the phone out of his hand.

Face hot with unnamed embarrassments, Dean panted as he pressed Sam’s phone to his ear. “Cas? Hi, it’s Dean.”

“ _Dean? I don’t understand―_ ”

“Hold on.” Dean thumbed off the speakerphone, shaking his head as he extracted himself from the group, hopping to avoid Gabriel’s swipe at his feet. Benny grinned from the couch, and Dean flipped both him and Sam the bird, in silent (and very sarcastic) thanks for their help.

He shut the glass door behind him, taking a breath of fresh summer night air as the raucous sound of the background TV faded along with the laughter, and the swell of the city flooded into him instead.

“You still there, Cas?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Dean chuckled, pressing his hand to his face. “God. Sorry about that, that’s Gabriel. Cohabitation is a fucking horrible thing, I tell you. You know I can tell these people apart by the pubic hair they leave on the toilet seat? Christ, I want out.”

“ _Oh. Well, that’s... That’s quite a different image to what I expected._ ”

“Expected about what?”

“ _Cohabitation._ ”

Dean grinned at the evening sky, the purple dome of night slowly encasing the daylight. “This world ain’t always pretty.”

“ _I’ve never really known it to be amazing, no._ ”

Dean huffed, sticking his free hand in his jeans pocket, scuffing his socks on the roof concrete. The chill bled through his socks, but he could still feel the radiance of the absent sun amidst the cold, and he didn’t mind so much. Besides, Castiel’s voice made him warm all over.

“ _Dean?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _Why was Gabriel asking me all of those...? Um._ ”

Dean blew a raspberry, swaying over to the loveseat as he thought about an answer. “He’s just an asshole,” he said, hoping that covered everything. It usually did. “We caught your racing show tonight. Didn’t see you there; can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.”

“ _I tried my best not to be seen,_ ” Castiel said, a slight lilt of humour in his voice. “ _Did you guess which horses were mine?_ ”

Dean began to swing the loveseat, biting his lower lip in a grin. “I got no clue. They all had crazy-ass names, though. You’d probably name yours something sensible.”

“ _You thought wrong. Gabriel’s Hot Wings was one of mine―_ ” Dean laughed, and Castiel continued, “ _As was Devil’s Antlers._ ”

“That last one was a real riot,” Dean laughed. “Sammy bet on that one.”

“ _He should count himself lucky. Antlers’ performance has been mediocre this season. Today was - hmm-hmm - something of an improvement._ ”

“Nice.” Dean’s smile was starting to hurt his face, but he didn’t want to stop. He rested his neck against the back of the loveseat, still swinging as he closed his eyes. “And, hey Cas?”

“ _Still here._ ”

“The picture you sent. You like it?”

Dean heard the smile in Castiel’s reply. “ _I do._ ”

“Came out awesome, just like I said it would. Daphne’s a lucky chick, huh?”

The pause this time went on far longer than Dean would have thought necessary. He opened his eyes, tilting his head towards the phone. “Cas?”

“ _I’m, um... Dean?_ ”

“Uh-huh?”

The silence was crackly, the gritty echoes of traffic mingling with the hiss of the phone line.

“You still there, Cas?”

“ _Yes. It’s nothing, I was just thinking about something._ ”

Dean’s lips tilted up once more, frowning a little at the curl of pleasure he still felt in his gut. Castiel’s voice was so low, rumbling, and even through the phone - _especially_ through the phone, the way he offered his words just invited thoughts of sex line operators.

The glass door clacked open, and Sam leaned out onto the roof, a beer in hand. “Dean. There’s a movie on TV that we wanna watch, you gonna join us?”

Dean sat up a little more, hand over the phone receiver as he replied to Sam, “When does it start?”

“Couple minutes?” Sam lingered even after Dean shrugged and nodded, and Dean got the impression that Sam knew exactly how nice Castiel was making him feel. The smile on his face just didn’t want to go.

Dean sighed as Sam shut the door again, leaving him alone with Castiel’s voice. “Sam wants to watch a movie. Benny’s over right now, guess we’re having a boy’s night in.”

“ _What’s that like?_ ”

“What, a boy’s night in?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Dean laughed, leaning over his thighs as the loveseat stopped swinging, his feet on the floor. “You never had a slumber party? Braid each other’s hair, pillow fights?”

“ _Not like... no..._ ”

Dean snorted. “Kidding. Nah, it’s all beer, fantastically unhealthy snack food and cheesy cop movies, most of the time. If Charlie was here it’d be a different matter. She brings the geeky stuff. It’s cool.”

“ _You... like ‘geeky’ stuff. Is that anything like ‘kinky’ stuff?_ ”

Dean groaned and set his nose into the palm of his hand. “God, just ignore what Gabriel says. His questions were like, I don’t know. His version of vetting new people. That’s how he shows he _cares_ about me, or whatever. It’s crap, but... Heh. There’s a heart under there somewhere.”

Castiel’s soft sigh fuzzed out the phone line for a moment. “ _What was he trying to determine, exactly?_ ”

Dean shrugged, slipping his free hand between his thighs to keep it warm. “Whether you’re worthy of being my friend? Who knows.” He looked through the glass behind him, and saw Gabriel waving at him quite insistently.

Dean sighed, standing up. “They’re calling me in, time for the movie.” He entered the apartment again and closed the door behind him, carefully, so it made no noise. He could hear the TV playing the opening soundtrack to something he recognised but couldn’t place. “Hey,” he said, as a quick afterthought, “you wanna watch with us? Keep the phone line open, or...?”

“ _I imagine that would be quite expensive._ ”

Dean pulled an uncomfortable face that Castiel didn’t see.

“ _I’ll cover your bill,_ ” Castiel said. “ _I’ll pay for the call._ ”

“Aw, shucks, Cas―”

“ _I’d really very much like to watch the movie with you,_ ” Castiel added, hastily. “ _What channel?_ ”

Dean elbowed Gabriel out of his place beside Benny, slinging his arm over the backrest as he sank back. He became distracted for a moment, recognising the movie. “It’s _The Little Shop of Horrors_. Oh man, I haven’t seen this in years.”

Dean heard fumbling on the other end of the line, a clatter that sounded much like a dropped TV remote, then the blasting sound of the same infomercial they had previously bade farewell at Dean’s end.

Castiel found the right channel before Dean could even get the remote out of the bowl of Cheetos, and he heard Castiel’s curious hum as his TV volume was lowered to a reasonable level.

“ _This is a musical film?_ ” Castiel said, a question which needed no answer, since it was obvious. Three beautiful ladies in puffy powder-blue dresses sang in a sharp harmony, their shoulders shaded by studio-made lightning.

They travelled a rainy street, then into a shop on the street, singing to an entirely oblivious man reading a newspaper inside the shop. It had 1986 written all over it, and Dean grinned crookedly, nudging Benny in the thigh.

“Yeah, they sing and the dance, and it’s all very nostalgic. I remember, like, a motel room, watching this with Sammy in the middle of the night. Dad was out someplace, god knows where.”

“Are you going to talk to your boyfriend through this whole thing?” Gabriel asked, from where he was perched on the armrest of the couch. “Because four dudes watching a musical on a Friday night, that’s gay enough.”

Dean’s nostrils flared at Gabriel, but he caught sight of Benny’s expression. The flat glint in his eye said it all; Benny agreed with Gabriel.

“ _This tone... it’s ominous, yet―_ ” Castiel said in Dean’s ear, oblivious to Benny’s silent accusations. “ _Cheerful._ ”

“It’s pretty much like that the whole way through,” Dean grinned, hooking his ankle over his knee, ignoring Benny’s grumpy sigh. “The songs are great, though. And, oh, I neglected to mention...”

Dean trailed off on purpose, just as the first song ended and the three musical muses disappeared. The scene was set: in the basement of the shop, a bespectacled man named Seymour failed to steady a shelf of plants.

There was silence from all parties as everyone watched the scene unfold.

“Sexy legs...” Dean muttered, upon seeing a pair of leopard-spotted stilettos. A quiet chuckle came down the phone line, and Dean smiled to himself, ever so slightly proud of himself for amusing Castiel. The only person he usually cared about making truly happy was Sam. A glance in Sam’s direction let Dean know he was transfixed with the movie, same as Benny and Gabriel.

The sexy pair of legs’ owner was introduced as Audrey, a sad-looking but beautiful woman. Dean recalled having seen this movie before, yes, but he never recalled seeing Audrey as attractive. Time had grown him, and he was viewing the story as a different man, now.

“ _Ah,_ ” Castiel said, as the clumsy Seymour broke his shelf. “ _I think I see what you failed to mention._ ”

“You see it, you see it?” Dean prompted, to an annoyed hiss from Sam.

“ _I think... No, I missed it..._ ”

Dean cackled, and again, they watched the muses fall into character, a second song carrying the narration in one direction or another. They sang about their home town being as lousy as it looked, and Dean wished he didn’t recognise all the hallmarks of his own childhood. At least in his and Sam’s case, they never stayed long enough to call a place home.

“ _Either this song is horrendously catchy, or I’ve heard it before._ ”

“Could be both.”

“ _I’ve most certainly never heard it before._ ”

Audrey became part of the scene again, but the shot seemed less about her emotional pain than her cleavage. Dean glanced along the row of men beside him, seeing the light of the TV reflected as a star in each of their beady eyes. He smirked and looked away, watching the screen.

“ _Oh! I see―_ ” Castiel shut his mouth as the camera shot moved below the shop sign. “ _No, I missed it again._ ”

“Patience, Cas.”

“ _Hmm._ ” Then Dean heard Castiel gasp. “ _Dean, it is! It’s a flower shop!_ ”

Dean’s head fell back against the couch’s backrest as he laughed, something about Castiel’s enthusiasm making his insides feel like hot caramel. “Yeahhhh.”

Benny elbowed Dean in the hip. “Brother, either you put him on speaker or get a room to yourself.”

Dean snorted and turned his head towards the phone. “Hey, Cas, I’m gonna put you on speaker, that all right?”

“ _If you must._ ”

Dean set the phone on the armrest beside him, hoping that if it slid off, his roll of blankets beside the couch would catch it before it hit the floor.

The general premise of the song that continued was that everyone wanted out; out of the town, out of their lives. Dean didn’t think Castiel would relate, being upper class, and being the kind of apple that had no need to fall any further from the tree. But Dean heard Castiel’s pining sigh, just as Seymour and Audrey sang their heartfelt last note. Dean knew that sigh. That was the sigh he used to sigh, too.

“Is your life really that bad, Cas?” Dean asked, softly.

Benny snorted, and Dean looked at him questioningly. Benny glanced back, gave an innocent shrug, then focused himself on the movie again.

“ _Are all of your friends listening to me?_ ”

“Kinda. yeah.”

“ _Then we’ll talk about it tomorrow._ ”

Dean ran his hand over his mouth so nobody else would see his wide smile. The thought of seeing Castiel tomorrow was a very good thought indeed.

“ _Why would they ever think they could run a flower shop that way?_ ” Castiel asked. “ _It’s empty. There aren’t any plants._ ”

“Oh, there’ll be plants,” Dean grinned. “Shh, Cas, just watch.”

So, they watched.

Seymour and Audrey’s boss decided to close the shop down, since business was about as terrible as Sam seemed to think Dean’s prawn dumplings were. As a fresh business idea, Seymour brought up a new plant from the basement, something blue and bulbous, reminiscent of a Venus Fly Trap.

“ _He named it after the woman? Audrey... Audrey II. I’d think that was flattering as well, except―_ ”

Sam cut over Castiel’s sentence. “Except that thing’s a freaking monster.”

“Spoilers, Sammy,” Dean snapped. “It’s a fugly plant, Cas, end of story.”

“ _Quite._ ”

The movie got stranger and stranger, and the beer got downed bottle by bottle, and with each empty bottle came a louder laugh from every man, running along with every crappy 80’s thing that toddled out of the TV. Castiel’s laugh wasn’t even drunken, but Dean’s head was buzzing, and each tiny chuckle Castiel gave translated into half an electric shock for Dean.

By the time the movie established the fact that Audrey II liked to drink frickin’ _human blood_ , it cut into an ad break, and Dean excused himself to the bathroom. “Not that I don’t appreciate your company, Cas, but I’m handing you over to the sheriff for a minute.”

Benny took the phone with a solid hand, his eyebrows raised in amusement. Dean watched Benny stand up, but it was only once Dean was back out of the bathroom that he realised where Benny had taken Cas.

“What’s he doing out there?” Dean asked Sam, who was messing with the remote batteries.

“Hm?” Sam glanced up, also looking at Benny.

Benny stood alone on the roof with the lights off, talking into the phone. His black jacket became part of the city backdrop, only the orange glows from streetlights showing him as any different to the night.

Dean worried for a moment; what could he possibly have to talk about with Cas?

Then again, as far as vetting went, Dean was more inclined to trust Benny’s judgement than Gabriel’s. Cas had already passed Sam’s test, so as far as Dean was concerned, Castiel was a green light for him. All go.

He sat down heavily on the couch, ignoring Gabriel’s pained yelp as his foot was partially squished.

Dean liked Cas. A lot. The attraction wasn’t surprising to him.

What was surprising was that... Okay, wow, he _really_ wanted him. Not even - well, not _totally_ \- in a sexy way. He just wanted him around. In his shop. In his home. In his _life_.

Nobody except Sam ever made Dean smile that much. Dean kind of felt like dancing just at the thought of him, the funny straight-faced man stuck with a girlfriend he didn’t―

Crap.

Dean rested his face in his hands, leaning over his thighs.

“Boy, did the beer piddle itself right out of your system, or what?” Gabriel tutted, kicking Dean gently in the thigh. “The sheriff’s interrogating your boyfriend, so that oughta do it.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dean muttered, meeting Gabriel’s golden eyes as he rolled off the couch and onto the floor. “He’s just a friend.”

“Who you have the hots for.”

“No.” Dean sneered. “Maybe. We’re Bert and Ernie. Stuck in a kid’s show, and we absolutely cannot do the do.”

Sam pulled a curious face, but Dean shook his head, explaining, “He’s seeing someone. He’s practically engaged, for fuck’s sakes.”

They got no further in that discussion, as Benny then re-entered the apartment, and handed the phone to Dean without a word.

“What, what did you say to him?” Dean asked, looking up at Benny’s impassive face.

“Nothin’ much,” Benny drawled, taking his seat.

Dean put the phone to his ear. “Cas, what did he say to you?”

“ _We’ll discuss it tomorrow._ ”

Dean put it out of his mind. He had more important things to worry about, like the fact that the movie had come back from the break, and Audrey (the lady, not the plant) was dreaming about a perfect and tooth-rottingly sweet family life with Seymour.

Dean had never dreamed of anything like that. But now he had the length of the song to think about it, he considered maybe that was what he was living now. He had the kids (namely, Gabriel, Sam, and the fat white cat who was still on his bed), the job, and the daily life of a homemaker. He was living the quiet life of a suburban mother, despite being an ex-whatever in the centre of a busy city.

It hurt to think about. This should have been his dream. No jail, happy family. It was pretty much the best he could ever hope for. Heaven on Earth, practically.

And yet there was a pining, hopeful feeling. He wanted more, and it wasn’t the kind of want that had him rifling through the kitchen cupboards, eating anything from an open packet in the hope it would satisfy. He wanted - God help him...

He wanted a partner.

Not a partner in crime. A partner in honesty. In love. In bed, and in house and home. In joy and in sadness, and for all the time his thoughts took, half the movie seemed to have passed, and he’d barely said a word to Castiel at all.

It didn’t take his whole IQ to figure out he was jealous of Daphne. He wanted what she had. And it was a sallow, hunchbacked feeling, curdling like month-sour milk in his stomach. The good feelings from talking to Cas were gone, and all that lingered was the knowledge that just like everything else that had passed in Dean’s life, he wanted what he couldn’t have.

The movie blended into the background, the haze of beer dulling Dean’s interests. Castiel wasn’t all that talkative either, but didn’t hang up the phone and save himself the massive bill. Dean took some satisfaction from that. They found each other good company, even when both were silent and absent.

When Audrey II took to eating human people, using Seymour to find its next fix, the movie didn’t seem nearly as entertaining as it was when Dean was younger. He knew there was a reason he never named his plants or got too attached, and this was it.

Just after another ad break took over, Dean heard a ringing landline phone at Castiel’s end. Simply hearing the soundtrack of Castiel’s existence let Dean take a brighter view of life, and smiling a little, he leaned towards Cas’ low, grumbling complaint. “You gonna get that, Cas?”

Castiel sighed. “ _It’ll be my father. He always calls at nine on a Friday._ ”

“Well, you’d better go say hi, then. If he asks why you’re late, tell him Dean Wesson gave you a hall pass.”

“ _Wesson?_ ”

Dean smirked. “Cruddy, ain’t it?” He looked at Benny out of the corner of his eye, and snorted. The phone was still ringing. “Go on, go talk. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“ _I hope so. Goodnight, Dean._ ”

“‘Night Cas, love you.”

The phone call ended, and the room dipped into silence. Someone had hit the mute button on the TV, and Dean could feel three pairs of eyes watching him. He even had an out-of-body experience, and he felt his own eyes on the back of his neck, his other self silently asking what the _hell_ he’d just said.

“Wow,” Gabriel said. “Bert and Ernie have got nothing on you, Deano.”

Dean’s heart was pounding. He’d not meant to say it. He never said that to anyone that wasn’t Sam, not like that, not so casually.

“I - I - I - I didn’t mean, didn’t mean to say that, it wasn’t... Crap, do you think he even caught that? Was it - was it obvious? Was I - fuck―”

Sam’s smirk was radiant, and looked permanent. Dean squinted, standing up, feeling his feet twitching to start pacing. Benny hummed a surprised but satisfied note, leaning back on the couch with one arm hooked over the back.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed again.

Slip of the tongue, that was all it was. Freudian slip.

But... did that mean he _meant_ it?

Shaking his head, mortified beyond belief, Dean backed out from the couch and headed for his room. He was going to curl up in bed and pretend he was dead to the world. Nobody could judge him―

Lucifer sat proudly on Dean’s pillow, looking for all the world like he knew _exactly_ what Dean had imagined Castiel doing with his tongue the last time he’d whacked off in the shower. If that wasn’t messed up, Dean didn’t know what was.

He went back into the living room, head down. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

He took his leather jacket, didn’t do up his bootlaces, and slammed the door behind himself.

Head full of a sky the colour of Castiel’s eyes. Soft chuckles and tiny smiles, bristles across a sharp jaw.

Dean turned his gaze to the night stars as he walked the street, his hands curled in his pockets. He prayed - yes, _prayed_ \- that he wouldn’t mess this up.

It was one thing to want a partner, a spouse, whatever the dictionary wanted to call it, but it was another thing to take someone who wasn’t his, and yet one more thing to take the wrong person entirely.

He’d fallen in love before. It never worked out, with women. They liked his style, they liked his fast life - because it was intoxicating, at first. Women liked guns, they liked cars, they liked dangerous men with caring hearts. But once they fell for him, and he fell back, it was just tumbling. It wasn’t falling once they hit the ground.

Falling meant someone got hurt, in the end.

With men, it was a different matter. The men Dean met were part of the mess to begin with. They had guns of their own, and they lived and breathed danger. Dean was hard-pressed to admit it, but he was equally as attracted to the bullets and the lies as the women were.

With men... Dean shot first, questions later. Hands, disarm, fingers, mouths, lies. Beds to fall against, beauty and pleasure rising with the dawn - but always the price of it hung over his head. Information, favours. It was never a physical or emotional give-and-take the same way as with women. The men wanted money, or his skills. He wanted them, and they wanted him.

But it wasn’t love.

He couldn’t mess this one up. If Castiel wasn’t the man Dean thought he was, then his whole life would be gone, for the fourth time over. One day his chances would run dry.

And that wasn’t even the important part. Sam was the important part.

Sam had a wife now. Dean couldn’t imagine a better woman for his little brother than Sarah, the one woman who fell with them and knew how to _keep_ them falling, never letting them hit the ground. She protected Dean, too. Dean didn’t know how to thank her for that, nor repay her.

Who knew, maybe she and Sam would have kids someday.

Dean didn’t want to be in jail, because he didn’t want to miss that.

If he could hope for anything right now, he had to hope that Benny knew what he was doing. Dean hoped he’d know if Cas was the angel Dean thought he was. Sam might base his character profiles on intuitive hyper-awareness, but Benny went on the law. And the law was a pressing issue here.

Dean turned from the traffic-humming street and jogged up the stairs to Charlie’s apartment. He knocked, head down. He could hear the bassline of a song he recognised coming from inside. The inside lights shone orange through the misted glass, highlighting the edges of the chipped paint on the porch windowsill.

He took a deep breath, letting out the lingering taste of beer, alongside the silky air that came with the San Francisco summertime.

The door squeaked open, and Dean was startled to peer into the face of Kali, the dark shadows under her eyes all but gone. She grinned a lazy grin at him, crooning, “Come to join the party, hm? You won’t last the night.”

“Party?”

The door opened a little wider, and Charlie hung on Kali’s shoulder, eyes wide as she took in Dean’s bewildered demeanour. “Hey Dean,” she said, a confused note in her voice. “What’s up?”

Dean tensed his toes inside his boots. “Need a place to crash. Cat’s shedding on my life.”

Charlie let the door open completely, and Kali raised her dark eyebrows and sauntered away, totally unimpressed with him, as per usual.

“What is it you’re doing in here?” Dean asked, stepping inside and shrugging off his jacket, letting Charlie swipe it away and throw it on a pile of other coats. “Jesus, how many people are here tonight?”

“A fair few,” Charlie smiled back, winking. “Gilda’s one.”

“Ah,” Dean said, understandingly. “Girl’s night in, or something.”

“Exactly,” Charlie said, taking Dean by the wrist and pulling him down the wide hallway, past the assorted Japanese weapons and framed autographs that lined the walls. “You’ll be right at home.”

“You realise I did actually intend to sleep,” Dean muttered, as he was led into the lounge.

All thoughts of sleep dissipated as he saw the goings-on in this room. At least eight women lay flopped over the furniture, a car-racing video game being played very violently by two of them, shouts and screams being hollered from every direction. Dean wondered how anyone even heard him knocking on the door through the racket these people were making.

“So this is what single chicks do with their free time when they hit thirty,” Dean said to the room, a smirk smearing over his mouth as half the ladies looked up at him. The smirk fell as they all returned to their games, shrieking as one of their cars crashed into a barrier. Someone laughed like a tipsy raccoon from the far corner of the room, and received a fist bump from the blonde chick next to her.

“Let me guess,” Charlie said, nudging Dean’s side. “You’ve never walked into a room full of women wearing pyjamas and not had at least one falling all over you.”

Dean sneered. “No,” he said, defensively. Charlie saw right through him. He shrugged at her, then moved to perch on the arm of the nearest La-Z-Boy. “Okay, yeah. So, what’s the deal here, am I meant to hit on people, or just excuse myself quietly and go sleep in your bed?”

“Gilda’s in my bed.”

“You’ve got a spare room?”

“Nope. There’s at least two gals doing it in there right now.”

“I take it they wouldn’t take kindly to visitors.”

Charlie slapped Dean lightly on the arm. “Just behave. Act gay, you’ll blend right in.”

“When’s lights out?”

Charlie just laughed and walked away.

It took Dean a little while. He had to relearn how to mingle, because it was hard to do when nobody was distracted by his pretty face and his suave one-liners.

Sarah was nice about it, having dragged herself out of a heap of gigglers in order to introduce Dean to a few of her friends. Dean still thought it was crazy how well Sarah got on with Charlie’s posse. She was like a social chameleon; she didn’t look a slight out of place, here.

After half an hour, Dean was awarded a turn on the car game, and once he worked out how to use the controls (approximately 0.4 seconds), he was proudly wheeling a 1967 Chevy Impala down a racetrack, somehow beating out his opponent’s shiny yellow Ferrari. He never gave away his secret, but he had a feeling his six years as a real-life getaway driver had something to do with it.

He could certainly appreciate the strange irony that had three mostly-straight men, one bisexual, and one extra guy on the phone, drinking beer, eating Cheetos and guacamole, and _watching a musical_ in near-silence, while a dozen probably-maybe-gay women raced classic cars around a racetrack until two in the morning, on a diet of nothing but cake, cola and pizza.

He liked both parties. But only one of those left his head pounding with excitement, laughing at jokes he didn’t get, because he found them funny anyway.

He ended the night while half the women were still screaming about _Lord of the Rings_ , Charlie quoting random lines from _The Hobbit_ while standing on the couch wearing bunny slippers and a party hat. Dean just lay back on the carpet and watched the lightbulb above him turn into a tiny sun.

He had no idea what time it was when he woke up. He had drool down his face, his mouth tasted like shit, his shoulders felt out of place, and he couldn’t feel his left foot - but the first thing he did was laugh.

He’d kinda had the best night ever.

He didn’t even feel weird about telling Cas he loved him. Whether he was _in_ love, or just _with_ love, it didn’t matter. Because hey, he felt _something_.

Sometimes things happened quickly for people, he said to himself, as he tiptoed to the ensuite bathroom, past Gilda and Charlie as they snored. For Charlie and Gilda the connection was instant - and for Dean it had taken a week, but what was a week in the mess of his life? As far as his love life went, that week could be worth one of Sam’s school semesters to regular people. Dean’s life went fast, it was an unquestionable truth. Now it all finally hit him what was going on, falling in love didn’t seem all that startling any more.

He stood under the shower spray, massaging one of Charlie’s shower gels into his shoulders to ease the knots.

Falling in love.

What kind of words were those, really? They meant a certain thing to some people.

 _Love_ , to people, meant...

Dean didn’t know what it meant. Not to other people.

To him, falling in love was just falling. It was weak, careless; it meant he’d slipped. It meant there was a ground to hit.

Sarah and Sam, they’d practically floated down. Like fucking fairies. Witness Protection caught them in its goddamn butterfly net, and Dean was just a straggler. Sam and Sarah fought for him, but he was the lucky one, here. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t deserve this freedom.

He didn’t _fall_ in love, not this time. Not with Cas. This time, he’d walked right into it. He’d held open his hands, he’d closed his eyes, and he’d whispered to anyone who was listening. _Send me somebody._

Just that fact alone should have left him settled. He should accept it, accept what he’d been given. But he was Dean Wesson, as of two months ago. Dean Wesson wasn’t as great at this kind of acceptance as the Dean Winchester he once was. He still had a set of moral codes which he lived by, albeit changeable ones, and he...

Nah.

There lay a point in Dean’s internal thoughts, at any point where he thought about something too much. He hit that wall, and his internal voice just flipped a switch, and said, “Fuck it.”

“What? Ugh, Dean. You’re using all the hot water,” came Charlie’s response from outside the bathroom.

Maybe that voice wasn’t so internal.

✿

Sam groaned as he reached for his phone, rubbing his eyes as Sarah stretched in the bed beside him. She’d snuck in late, and it was just as well, because they’d needed a whole hour to clean the kitchen once Gabriel decided midnight was a great time to make cookies in the dark.

Poking blindly at his phone, Sam pressed it to his ear and croaked a “Hello?” into it.

“ _Sam? It’s me._ ”

“Who’s ‘me’?”

“ _Castiel._ ”

Sam rolled over, staring at the ceiling as he blinked. “Uhh. Cas. Hi. What’s up? What time is it?”

“ _Half seven,_ ” Castiel said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable time to be calling on Saturday morning. “ _I’m calling because I wanted to ask... about what Dean said last night._ ”

Sam groaned and rubbed his eyes, devoting himself to waking up enough to answer the question properly. It wouldn’t do to have Castiel fumbling into a relationship with Dean on the word of a half-asleep little brother.

“ _It’s just, nobody’s - I mean, I’ve never..._ ” Castiel cleared his throat. “ _Nobody’s ever said what he said. Before. To me._ ”

Sam sat up, leaving most of the blanket to Sarah. “Uh. Okay. Wow.”

“ _I don’t even remember... Um, this is going to sound terrible, but I don’t even remember my father saying that to me._ ”

Sam’s heart felt pain at that confession. He’d never had a parent tell them they loved him, but he’d had Dean say it, every time he needed it - and even when he didn’t want to hear it, it was there to be heard. Then he’d heard Sarah say it too. He couldn’t imagine a life where he’d not heard those words from somebody.

And he realised, as he thought this, that he didn’t know what to say to Castiel any more.

He could tell him the truth, that Dean never meant to say it, that it tumbled out when he hadn’t shut his mouth. An accident, just an echo of how people spoke in movies, how people never were in real life. Dean was loving but he didn’t like to say it.

He could tell him it was real. That Dean spoke, said it quickly because he wanted the last word on the phone, to tell Castiel his feelings and have the call end there, with no way to unhear the words, but no time to discuss them. The coward’s confession. Again, Dean was loving but he didn’t like to say it.

Sam found the middle ground. “He says that to me sometimes,” he told Castiel. “Right before he hangs up the phone. It’s just in case, y’know? In case something goes wrong and we don’t see each other after.”

“ _Goes wrong,_ ” Castiel echoed.

“So what he said, Cas.... It was real. It was just...”

“ _Automatic._ ”

“No. Well - yeah. He says it to me and he means it. But yeah. A reflex thing.”

Castiel gulped audibly, his breaths agitated, but still quiet. “ _Do you know_ how _he meant it? Because you’re his brother, and I don’t think he would... mean it the same way. As he would for me._ ”

He sounded so hopeful. But Sam didn’t know the answer. For all he knew, Dean saw Castiel as another Charlie. A sibling, a close one. One that made him happy.

Sam wasn’t a liar, not completely. “I don’t know, Cas. You’ll have to ask him.”

Castiel whimpered at the other end of the line, and Sam chuckled. “Be brave, Cas. He’s just a lonely fuckup in need of nice easy company. And honestly? I think you’re good for him. But, um, don’t tell him I said that.”

Castiel laughed softly. “ _I won’t. Thank you, Sam._ ”

“You’re welcome.”

The call ended, and Sam flopped back to his pillow with a grunt.

Sarah mumbled and rolled into his side. “Who was that?”

Sam huffed and put his phone on the nightstand, then curled around Sarah. “Some poor soul in love with Dean.”

“Guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

Sarah hummed a tired laugh. “You owe me fifty bucks and a date.”


	6. Flower Crowns

Castiel entered Cupid’s Bow with a plastic shopping bag weighing down his hand. He’d carried it all the way from home, and the plastic had gotten thin on the journey. As he set it down on the front desk, he flexed away the red line from his fingers.

“What’s in the bag?” Dean asked, in a funny voice. “Sunshine?”

Castiel frowned, pausing halfway as he reached for the contents.

Dean laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. Take it you’ve never seen an Eastwood movie.”

“No.” Castiel pulled out a transparent plastic pot with its own lid, putting it on the table in front of Dean. He put a spoon on top of it, smiled, then took out his own pot, exactly the same.

“Cas, did you _make_ this?” Dean asked, an awed breath on his voice as he popped open the lid of his pot. “ _God_ , this looks fucking delicious.”

Castiel pressed his hips into the side of the desk, resisting the urge to grind forwards. Dean complimenting his handiwork felt physical to him.

He watched as Dean tucked his spoon into the topping, causing an avalanche of sweet golden crumbs. He raised the spoon, and Castiel could see the red berries, their colour bleeding into the thick white pudding around them. Dean closed his eyes as he put it into his mouth.

Castiel swallowed as Dean swallowed. There was nothing in Castiel’s mouth, but he could see that Dean enjoyed what he tasted, just by the blissful look on his face.

Dean opened his eyes slowly. Castiel was convinced that the darkness in his eyes had nothing to do with the light, nor the cover of his glasses frames. He watched Dean smile, his eyes on Castiel.

“You just gonna watch me eat, creeper?” Dean grinned, gesturing to Castiel’s untouched pudding with the blunt end of his spoon. “This is awesome, by the way...”

Castiel determinedly turned his eyes down as Dean took another mouthful, sighing.

“What even is this?” Dean murmured, with a full mouth. “‘s like... cheesecake, but made wrong.”

Castiel shrugged, massaging the juice out of a blueberry with his tongue as he slipped his coat from his shoulders. Dean took the coat for him and laid it over a bare ledge behind him, where the sleeve dangled helplessly onto protruding coloured paper.

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” Castiel said. For the first time, he mentioned his mother and didn’t feel a conscious absence. It had taken him three decades, but now, he was at peace with her loss. “She... used to make it for me, every Sunday morning after Church.”

Dean hummed, licking the back of his spoon.

Castiel laughed at the sight. Dean glanced up at him, sucking his lower lip into his mouth before asking, “What?”

“She always said that was rude. Licking the back of a spoon.”

Dean snorted. “Well, I ain’t a lady.” He licked the spoon again, this time dramatically. Castiel couldn’t pretend not to watch his tongue shiver over the smooth plastic. Dean looked down, shoving another heap of pudding onto the spoon. “But I wouldn’t do that in front of her. I’m nice and polite in front of adults.” He offered Castiel a tiny wink, then mirrored him as he took another mouthful.

Castiel swallowed, shaking his head. He ran his tongue over his teeth quickly, removing a dot of berry before he spoke. “You wouldn’t get the chance to meet her, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?!”

Castiel’s smile was sad, but it went no deeper than a soft unhappiness. “No, I’m afraid she passed away, some time ago.” He looked back to his pudding, flipping a layer of crumble off the top of it and watching it stick to the thick filling below.

“Aw. That sucks, man,” Dean said, voice quiet. Castiel felt a touch on the back of his hand, but as he looked to it, Dean curled his fingers and the touch ended. “My mom...”

Dean trailed off, pulling back his hand completely, eyes on his food. “She died when I was four. I probably shouldn’t, uh...” A huff escaped Dean’s lips, and he swallowed. “Raised by my dad, me and Sammy both. Well, I say raised... Trained, is more what happened.”

Dean cleared his throat, and lifted the pot of pudding into a hand, eating from it as he sat back on his stool.

“You know―” Dean looked Castiel in the eye, an odd smirk on his lips, “you don’t need to bring me food every time you visit. I mean, it’s great, but you don’t have to.”

“I like making food,” Castiel explained. “I always make one helping for myself, and it seems like a waste when there’s enough room in my kitchen to cater for more.”

Dean nodded a few times in acceptance. Castiel watched him scrape up the smears of pudding left around the bottom of the pot, herding the gooey parts onto the dip of his spoon. What remained of the crumble stuck together, and Dean hummed a satisfied note as he put it into his mouth, closing his lips around it.

Castiel was only half done, and he took a massive scoop, shoved it into his mouth, then offered Dean the rest. Dean chuckled with obvious glee, and took the pot from Castiel, their fingers interlacing for a split second before Dean sat back on his stool, wriggling to get comfortable.

“How can you _not_ want this, man?” Dean complained through his half-shut mouth, tipping his chin up and closing his eyes as he savoured the subtly sweet taste, the plush explosions of the berries under his teeth, and the sour tang that Castiel knew remained in his mouth once he swallowed. “Fuck, I need this recipe.”

Castiel smiled, reaching for the bag again. “I ate plenty while I made it last night, don’t worry about me. And no, you cannot have the recipe. It’s something my mother only ever shared with me, and I...”

Castiel recalled her words. The dish was only to be served to the most precious of people, she said. She’d only ever served it to Castiel.

With raised eyebrows, Castiel realised that while his mother had never said it plainly to him, she’d shown him she loved him. Thirty years. Thirty years, and he’d never realised.

“Addams family values, or something?” said Dean.

Castiel yet again squinted at Dean, but even the sun in the window shone no light on Dean’s sentence.

Dean caught sight of Castiel’s face, and swallowed his pudding just to sigh at him. “You really don’t watch TV, huh.”

Castiel shook his head, the Thermos flask in his hand seeping with warmth. “I watch races. Parliament updates. Business news. Documentaries.”

Dean was scowling at Castiel with all the distaste one might reserve for a sour grape. “You’re as bad as Sammy. Worse, in fact. What I was trying to say, was that... Okay, there’s a bit of backstory, but... it’s a family secret recipe. So you won’t share.”

Castiel nodded, despite there being more to it than Dean conveyed.

Castiel shifted on his feet as an ache started to get to him, built up as he’d been standing for a while. Dean saw his unspoken discomfort, and practically leapt off his stool to grab a second one from behind him, dragging it forward. Castiel thought he would bring it to where Castiel stood now, but he left it at the side of the desk.

Castiel took the Thermos flask as he moved to sit, for once not opposite Dean, but beside him.

“You brought coffee,” Dean voiced, as Castiel poured it into the two cups that also served as stacked lids to the flask. “Damn, Cas, you are just... mm, godsend.” He purred into his cup, tendrils of steam easing across the freckles on his cheeks as he sipped.

Castiel’s knee was pushed against Dean’s thigh.

“So,” Dean said, pressing his lips together to spread away a drop of coffee. “Am I going to find out what you and Benny talked about last night?”

Castiel’s hands sweated a little, and he slid them under the desk to wipe them on his jeans. “I... He...”

He throat was tight, and he _wanted_ to say it. Benny had assured him that nothing would go terribly wrong if he said it.

“Benny... knows me.” Castiel struggled to keep speaking, but he forced out the words. “We met. We’ve met often. I’ve known him since― For years.”

Dean looked at Castiel with his jaw held slack, astonishment shining in his wide eyes behind his glasses.

“He attends my father’s public events,” Castiel continued, eyes down. He watched the liquid in his cup stray up the sides, surface tension clinging to the plastic. “He and I never talk much, but―”

“But you’re both strong silents,” Dean interjected, a smile playing on the side of his lips. “Benny only talks when he’s annoyed about something or when he actually found something important to say.”

Castiel raised shy eyes to meet Dean’s. “And me?”

Dean’s eyebrows jumped, and he craned downwards to take another sip of coffee. “You’re... I don’t know. Your brain works in numbers, going by the stuff you like watching.”

Castiel’s smile showed his teeth, and he shook his head as he tipped back the last of his drink. “My brain works in years of habitual layered repression.”

Dean scoffed, almost choking on his coffee. “Wow, just out and say it, why don’t you?”

Castiel stuck his fingers under his throat and loosened his tie. “My therapist used to say I was too outright.” He sighed. “It doesn’t bother me. As a rule, I don’t let myself have the things I want.”

“And why the hell’s that?” Dean was looking at Castiel like he was some sort of inhuman oddity.

Castiel sobered a little, hunching over his empty cup, turning it in his hands as he rested his elbows on the desk. “I need my father to approve. He likes me doing business, working with his company. And yet, all I enjoy in life are the things filled with creativity - cooking, for example,” he said, gesturing to the empty pots. “And painting. I love painting, I do,” he added, nodding firmly at Dean, reiterating his words. “I find that... when I paint, I just don’t need anything else. I fix my own problems like that.”

“You know your dad doesn’t run your life, right?”

Castiel pressed his lips flat, watching Dean swallow his last drop of coffee. “He does. He sent me to university, he paid for... everything. If I didn’t put my degrees to good use―”

“Degree _zz_?!”

“Yes,” Castiel said, smiling at Dean but feeling no happiness at all. “I have three. I majored in accounting, business, and investment banking.”

Dean gaped at Castiel, a frown cut between his eyebrows. His thumb fiddled at the edge of the desk, tracing a groove.

Castiel leaned forward wearily, folding his arms as he unbuttoned his shirtsleeves, rolling them up. “I’m almost thirty-nine years old, Dean. My life is half gone. Every time I look at the clock, it’s more than just minutes ticking away.”

Dean grumbled, running his fingers over his mouth as his eyes scanned the shop. “I told Charlie pretty much the same thing, the other day,” he said, with a weak and breathy laugh. “I’m thirty-five. Living with my newlywed brother, which is pretty sad. It’s like the equivalent of still living with my parents. All I see sometimes, when I sit here, selling people flowers... Ugh. It’s sickening sometimes, seeing people, you know? Girlfriends, boyfriends. At least, when it’s funeral bouquets, there’s no doe-eyed lovesickness.”

“That... wasn’t what I meant,” Castiel said, lowly.

Dean shrugged with a self-conscious grin. “I’m just sayin’. By our age, nobody’s still single.”

Castiel felt a gentle pleasure, now certain Dean was romantically unattached. He looked at his own hands, pushing away the cup so he would stop fidgeting with it. “That’s why it’s so important I marry Daphne.”

Dean dropped his chin against his chest, hands moving to curl around his own fingers. “Because your life’s half over, or because your dad thinks you’re too old not to have kids already?”

“He does want grandchildren, it’s true,” Castiel tipped his head, “But my marriage would be a business investment, I think I told you that before. We’d marry and we’d... buy things together.”

“Like houses?”

“And companies, and businesses, and―”

“Dude, that’s not a marriage, that’s world domination!” Dean laughed, shaking his head and sniggering himself quiet, before moving to lean closer to Castiel.

Settled now, but still with a glint of amusement in his eye, Dean went on, “Not for nothin’, Cas, but screw your dad, all right? I know what trying to please fathers all the time is like, and it doesn’t work. It’s taken me five years... Wow, that’s longer than I thought it was― But Cas... Five years my dad’s been dead, and I’ve figured out that that whole time, I should’ve just stuck it to him. Don’t need him.”

“Dean, my father―”

“ _Trust_ me,” Dean insisted. “No matter how good your father thinks he’s being, even if he didn’t... hit you, or yell at you, or give you orders like a friggin’ Marine― If he gave you everything you have now, that doesn’t mean you need to keep taking it.”

Castiel shook his head, unsure of his own thoughts.

“You don’t owe your dad a marriage, is what I’m saying,” Dean said, quietly. “If it’s not working with Daphne...”

Dean left his sentence open-ended, prompting Castiel’s answer.

But Castiel didn’t want to answer. He didn’t _know_ how well it was going with Daphne. It could still work. The relationship wasn’t over, just beginning, and he had gained a connection with both Daphne and her daughter. There was still the promise of family and future, and he needed that.

Dean swallowed audibly. “Whatever’s happening there. Uh. Just... just make sure you go into it knowing for sure that you’re marrying because you want to, and Daphne wants to. If it even gets to that. You might not marry her, even. Date her. Try it out, and if it’s not right, find someone else. That’s what people do when they’re like us.”

“I can’t _not_ marry her. My father is absolutely certain she’s who I need.”

Dean groaned, leaning back on his stool, then slamming it back to the ground and looking imploringly at Castiel. “Quit harping on about your father, dude! It’s not about him!”

Castiel felt like a floundering fish, caught without water as the flash flood drained away. “It’s always been about him. About his will. He’s - he’s an important man, Dean, I can’t disobey him.”

“Yeah?” Dean said, defiance making him nod, eyes stern. “Yeah, and when my dad was around, I thought he was the _shit_. Like, he was a _god_ to me. Everything he said was right, I didn’t think twice about his orders. I got myself caught in a web of bad stuff, Cas. Me and Sam both. The kind of stuff people don’t escape intact.”

Castiel soaked in every word, longing to hear what secrets Dean’s life held. It seemed so mysterious. Far darker than the flower shop, so dark that Castiel was certain he couldn’t begin to even imagine it. There were shadows in Dean, the hollow-eyed skull of war like a mask on his face.

“But Benny,” Dean breathed, “He’s given us...”

Dean didn’t seem able to continue, eyes closed, shutting out everything. After a moment, he gulped and opened his eyes, looking over at Castiel with his lips turned down. “Whatever you and Benny talked about, whether he told you what’s up with me or not―”

“He didn’t,” Castiel assured, still aching to know. “We mostly talked about me, about... about my name.”

Dean shook off the comment, and Castiel wished he hadn’t. He wanted to tell Dean the truth. Having told Dean so much about his father already, Emanuel’s family name wouldn’t be a shock. The lie he told, however, would hurt. He knew it would.

“I will never not be grateful for Benny,” Dean whispered. “He’s given me everything.”

Castiel was hit with a wave of feeling, something red and insulting, shaped as grabbing hands, raw want. Jealousy, _jealousy_ , the hunger to have what Benny had in Dean.

Castiel wanted to _give_ to Dean. Clothe him when he was naked, feed him when he was hungry. Make him laugh when he was sad, keep him warm when he was cold.

Keep him warm when he _wasn’t_ cold. Feed him when he wasn’t hungry. Love him when he was already loved.

Find the place. Find the place in the family where the niche sat empty, then add a link in the chain. If Benny had a place in Dean’s life, and Sam had a place, and Charlie, and all the others... then there was a place for Castiel. He just had to find it.

Castiel smiled at Dean, sliding a hand to cup the back of his wrist. Dean’s skin was soft, his arm almost free of hair. Dean twirled his wrist, laughing as he shook Castiel’s hand off. Castiel chuckled too, fully aware the touch had been unnecessary, the obviousness of it amusing to both of them.

“You’re pretty handsy,” Dean muttered, stroking his arm down, as if feeling a tingle on his skin where Castiel had touched. “Usually guys don’t do that.” His eyes darted up to meet Castiel’s, startlingly fast. “I’m only saying that in case you start feeling up other guys, that’s all. They might think it’s weird.”

Castiel smirked. With that sentence, Dean had informed him both that he didn’t want Castiel touching other men, as well as _not_ telling him to stop touching _him_. “I will keep that in mind, in case I meet some other man who needs the comfort of my touch.”

Dean ducked his head, eyes on the table. “Well, now you’re just straight-up flirting, Cas.”

“Really?” Castiel sat up straight. “That’s what it’s like?”

Dean looked at him, mouth open a little in a smile. “You’re kidding. You never flirted before? Like, on purpose?”

Castiel shook his head.

“So what the hell have you been doing with Daphne this whole time?”

Castiel frowned gently, rubbing a thumb over his fingernail. “I don’t really know.”

Dean scoffed, then groaned to himself as he slid a hand under his glasses frames, pressing at his tired eye. He winced as he let the hand drop again, and Castiel could see why: a smudge sat central to Dean’s glasses lens, blurring one of his green eyes into a haze.

Dean tipped his head down and pinched each arm of his spectacles, sliding them from his face. Castiel watched as he cleaned them with the corner of his flannel shirt, even cleaning the lens that didn’t have a smudge. He set the frames back on his face, meeting Castiel’s eye as he looked up.

“What?” Dean asked, soft accusation in his voice.

Castiel squinted, unsure what Dean’s tone was referring to. “Sorry?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

Castiel swallowed. Slowly, he gathered his thoughts, and as he did, he reached forward, muttering, “May I...?” but not waiting for an answer as he slid Dean’s glasses off his nose. Dean let him, not moving except to close his eyes, waiting until Castiel had folded them on the table.

“Dean, let me see your eyes,” Castiel smiled, finding the thought that Dean might be shy without his glasses quite endearing.

Dean sucked his lower lip into his mouth, and like a newborn foal, blinked his eyes open, as if seeing daylight for the first time. His green eyes met Castiel’s, so stunning in the light, emerald green, impossibly, beautifully coloured. His freckles were dusted like stars over his cheeks, his skin smooth, dented a little where his glasses frames had left a mark. His lips parted, full and red and curved like no man’s mouth Castiel had ever looked upon before.

It was as if, without Dean’s glasses, Castiel could see him clearly. There was not one part of him that Castiel did not find beautiful.

“I don’t think you’re breathing, Cas,” Dean whispered, blinking his long, long lashes. “God, I need to get laser surgery or something. I can’t freakin’ _see_ you, let alone hear you. You’re like a big blur of not-enough-sun and fuzzy brown-black. There’s blue for your eyes in there somewhere.”

Castiel breathed again, heat crawling up his neck as he flicked his gaze downward, looking instead to the pair of glasses under his thumb. He picked them up, unfolding them.

“May I try these on?”

Dean chuckled, resting his hands together, still blinking rapidly. “Sure. Funny how that’s always the first thing people want to do.”

“I’ve not worn glasses in over a decade,” Castiel said, slipping the still-warm frames to his nose. The nosepiece bridge was too thin for him, and he could feel it pinch ever so slightly. As he looked across at the blur that was Dean, his eyes ached, watering immediately. “Your eyesight is terrible.”

Dean laughed. “That’s what comes of a lifetime squinting at stuff right up to my face,” he said, leaning his face closer. A smile curled one side of his lips, and Castiel was almost startled as Dean lingered in his space, their eyes not more than three inches apart.

“Hey. You don’t look half bad in those.”

Castiel lifted the glasses, holding them above his eyebrows so he could look at Dean.

He was still three inches away, green eyes flecked with what looked like cosmos from outer space, earthy browns, ridges of gold. His eyelashes were glorious. He blinked so slowly, taking in Castiel’s face, his blue eyes, his probably gaping mouth...

Castiel had never fought the desire to kiss anyone quite so suddenly. The need just hit him, an _urge_ , that came in the way of his open mouth, hearing Dean lick his lips, seeing his pink tongue, watching him blink. A coil of blistering desperation _thumped_ in Castiel’s body, and he fought it, fought it with every ounce of sensibility he still possessed.

Something went _bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_.

Castiel gasped for air and pulled away, removing Dean’s glasses from his head, hands trembling as he clattered them to the desk, pushing them closer to Dean.

Dean picked up the frames and put them back on, glancing up once to look at Castiel, before turning away towards whatever made the noise. It continued to buzz, light and interrupted; not the sound of a cellphone’s vibrate, but something else.

“Bee!” Dean shouted, leaping out of his stool and spinning on the spot.

Castiel stood up slowly, looking around. He didn’t see a movement, but heard its ongoing buzz, perhaps moving between flowers.

“What’s wrong with a bee?” Castiel asked. “I like bees.”

Dean panted as he picked up a glass jar, tipped out a tealight candle onto the desk. He blew into the jar through pursed lips, blinking at the puff of invisible dust that flew into his face. “Bees sting people, Cas. And I don’t know how much you actually know about bees, but depending on the type of bee―”

Dean started hurrying around the shop, standing on tiptoes then ducking low, doing a strange kind of dance as he searched for the solitary insect. “Some bees, when they sting, they die. There’s me, who works with flowers, and I’m pretty protective of my flowers.”

Dean put his hand on Castiel’s arm and hauled him into the middle of the shop, pointing two fingers at his own eyes, then to Castiel’s, then one pointed finger around the shop. It was some sort of signal, and while Castiel didn’t understand the specifics of each movement, the meaning was clear enough.

He began his hunt for the bee, taking the opposite side of the shop to Dean.

“And,” Dean continued, “without bees, there’s no honey, but bees pollinate the goddamn flowers, so one less bee is like, a year’s worth of flowers or something.”

“Really?” Castiel asked, eyes darting back to Dean.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know the figures, I didn’t do the floristry course.”

“Yeah, about that,” Castiel smiled, eyes scouring the petunias spread out before him, then the tulips. “How in God’s name did you find yourself running a shop without training?”

“Eh,” Dean muttered, catching Castiel’s eye as they crossed paths beside the ferns. “The other employee quit, and Benny needed someone on short notice. I was like, hey Benny, I already live above your shop, I already have a garden, give me a day and I’ll try not to suck.”

“You’re incredible, though,” Castiel said, fingering the petals of the roses as he passed. “A natural gift, perhaps.”

Dean hummed a flattered sound. “Thanks. Yeah, no. I did it for a day, and I was okay. I think it was the fact I had so much fun that made Benny keep me on. It was quiet, you know? This place is...”

Castiel turned to see Dean gesture at the room, running a hand lovingly down a tassel of leaves that descended from a hanging pot above him.

“It’s magic,” Dean said. He blinked a few times, wearing a smile that was less on his face than it was in his whole being.

_Bzzzzzzzzzzz_.

Dean yelped, running after a shadow. Castiel hurried after him, unsure how he could even help, since he had no jar.

“Open the door, Cas! If it comes near you, get it out. But try not to let the air out, this place is expensive to cool,” he added, while Castiel moved to stand himself in the doorway.

The sun sank onto Castiel’s bare arm, warm even where the air outside lent a draft. He looked out at the sky, eyes still shaded by the door of the shop, ivy curling in a loop beside his head. Everything seemed beautiful. Hearing Dean’s boots clumping on the tiles, his heavy breath and tiny annoyed shouts every time he missed the bee... it seemed beautiful to Castiel.

“Fuck―!” Dean bellowed, then began another chase.

Castiel laughed, leaning on the door jamb, folding his arms as the bell tinkled in the breeze.

After a minute, he moved a bucket of carnations to sit in the doorway to keep the door open, and joined Dean in his labours.

Dean stood in the middle of the shop, folded over his knees, holding the empty jar out to Castiel as he approached. “You get the bastard, I’m sick of that buzzing noise. It’s starting to sound like it’s in my head.”

Castiel stood quietly, waiting for a buzz.

When it finally came, Dean startled, but Castiel rested a soothing hand on the side of his neck, whispering a hush as he passed, eyes on the bee.

He approached the marigolds casually, carefully, as quiet as the bee itself as it nestled its way into a flower, collecting its feast. With no trouble at all, Castiel cupped the jar over the flower. Once the bee finished its work and left the flower, Castiel put his hand over the jar opening, keeping the insect inside.

With a proud and defiant look at Dean, Castiel stalked to the door, stepped outside, and released the tiny creature into the sunlight. It buzzed, flew in a circle, and then flew away.

Dean slapped a hand over Castiel’s shoulder as he came back inside, lifting the bucket of carnations as he came. Dean pried the jar out of his hand, and let Castiel put the carnations back where they were meant to be.

“Nice work,” Dean said.

The door tinkled shut, bringing a more wholesome atmosphere now that the portal to the rest of the world was firmly closed. Castiel exhaled on a smile, moving to the front desk and taking his seat again. Dean edged behind him, his hand trailing across Castiel’s shoulders, wrinkling his dress shirt.

“Daphne told me about patience, and tolerance,” Castiel explained. “Her religious faith seemed relevant to this, I’m not sure why, but it came to mind when I saw you making an utter fool of yourself.”

“Huh!” Dean said, folding his arms.

“She’s a Buddhist,” Castiel added.

Dean pursed his lips and stared at the desk.

The door clinked open, and Castiel looked up, wondering if he hadn’t closed it properly. But he eased back to his seat as he realised Dean had a customer.

“Ms. Moseley,” both Dean and Castiel said at once.

Castiel looked at Dean, and Dean looked at Castiel, with rather more surprise in his expression than Castiel felt himself.

“This is the kind of welcome I deserve every place I go,” Ms. Moseley said, her smile cheerful as she looked over the two men behind the front desk. “My, my, Emanuel, you sure do find interesting places to sit and ponder.”

Castiel shrank back; Dean’s eyes were now on him.

Dean chuckled. “This here’s Castiel,” he said, getting out of his stool and passing Castiel, hand lingering on his shoulder again.

“Ah, _Casti_ el,” Ms. Moseley said, her eyes falling on Castiel as he sat there in silence. “Boy, it’s been so long, I probably mis-remembered. Apologies, angel.”

Castiel pulled a tight, uncomfortable smile. He knew full-well Missouri Moseley didn’t mis-remember _anything_. She’d seen him not six months ago, at one of his father’s charity events. Benny had been there too. The three of them had taken a photo together; Benny and Emanuel stood beside Emanuel’s father, who was handing Ms. Moseley a giant cheque. The newspaper that printed the photo had cropped Emanuel out.

“Small world, huh? What can I get for you today?” Dean asked, tying the knot at the back of his apron.

“Ahh,” Ms. Moesley said, looking away from Castiel’s pleading, thankful eyes. “Just your old stock, anything you’re looking to get rid of this weekend.”

“That I can do, ma’am,” Dean smiled, shooting a glance over to Castiel, winking for no apparent reason. In any case, it made Castiel’s toes curl.

Dean hummed a breathy “Bah-bah-baah―” as he slid around the shop, collecting flowers from their buckets - from _every_ bucket. Castiel watched his hands fill with roses, sunflowers, tulips, lilies, birds-of-paradise, and even more kinds that Castiel didn’t know by name - until Dean’s arms were laden with stems, and he had to return to the front table to lay out his collection.

Castiel saw that the flowers, while not wilting, were bruised, petals curled and dangling; their stems were ugly at the ends, and their leaves looked a little unhappy.

Missouri saw him looking, and from the place where she stood, admiring the Cupid’s bow on the wall, she explained, “The children at the home are looking to make flower crowns today. I’ve got a car full of offcuts, but I sure could do with more.”

“I’ll sell ‘em cheap,” Dean piped up, raising his head from a heaving cart of ivy, pulling out only one pot and bringing it to the table. “Just for you.”

“Ain’t you just the sweetest,” Missouri crooned, cupping Dean’s cheeks with her wrinkled hands, Dean’s lightly tanned skin seeming positively pale in contrast to hers. “Your momma always knew you’d grow up with a heart like a broken dam, always pouring out the love.”

Dean grinned, blushing as he wriggled out of her grip. “Quit talkin’ about my mom like you knew her,” he said, more playful than harsh.

Ms. Moseley tutted. “Boy, I knew everyone’s momma. Yours was especially pretty, inside and outside. You take after her, no doubt.”

Dean snorted and went back to pulling carnations, throwing a sweet glance over his shoulder at Castiel. “So how’d you two know each other?” he asked, directed at both Missouri and Castiel.

Castiel sucked on his tongue, the taste of coffee from earlier lingering.

“Ah,” Missouri said, slowly.

“She knows my father,” Castiel said, locking eyes with her, then shifting his gaze to Dean’s turned shoulders. “Well,” he smiled, “she knows everyone. It’s not surprising.”

“Dude, who _is_ your father?” Dean demanded, carrying another armful of tatty flowers to the desk. “You keep talking about him like he owns half the world or something.”

“San Francisco may seem like a big place, but it ain’t all that,” Missouri said.

Dean looked at her, poking his glasses further up his nose. “So... he owns the city?”

Castiel cleared his throat. “It’s not like that. He’s not― No, he’s nobody.”

Missouri harrumphed, unimpressed at Castiel’s lie.

This would have been a perfect opportunity to explain himself to Dean, and he’d blown it again. He didn’t want Dean to know that pretty much the first thing he’d said to him was nothing more than a foolish childhood game, returning thirty years on.

Dean seemed unconvinced anyway.

He gathered a few more flowers, then put them onto the desk and rang up Ms. Moseley’s total. She paid by credit card, her stern eyes watching Castiel. He sensed her glare even when he was examining the bruise that ran the entire length of a flower stem.

“I’ll help you get these to your car,” Dean said.

Castiel stood to help without a second thought, and upon seeing that, Missouri smiled softly, laying a hand across Castiel’s.

“You stay, Castiel. Here―” She swept up a bundle of flowers from the hundred or so she had, and she put them into Castiel’s empty hands. “Maybe you could make a flower crown too.”

Castiel mouthed a silent and confused thanks, and sat down as Dean passed him. Castiel felt Dean’s fingers brushing the skin on the back of his neck. At the touch, heat rocketed downwards, furious sensation in every nerve of his body.

And then Dean was gone, taking with him the rest of the flowers, the others with Missouri, one of her hands free to open the door.

Castiel was left stacked with emotion; his body still felt an unsatisfied bliss as the result of every touch Dean had bestowed on him, but that pleasure was melted by the knowledge that right now, Missouri could be telling Dean what Castiel’s real name was. Telling him that he’d lied.

Why did he lie?!

Castiel waited, the company of flowers feeling startlingly genuine. The sun glossed all of their faces, petals and ruffled colours all looking towards him, smiling for him, offering their beauty in place of Dean’s absence.

The sound of the clock ticking didn’t sound like his life ticking away. It counted down the seconds until Dean’s return. It was hopeful.

Castiel understood why Dean loved this place. Alone here, he didn’t feel alone. He felt warm, and safe, and totally at ease with the world. It was as if the scent of blossom carried away pain, let him breathe out his sorrows and breathe in perfume instead.

Dean’s shape cast a mottled shadow across the desk, and Castiel turned his face to watch Dean put his hand on the door and make the bell dance as he stepped inside. His head was down, a bewildered frown on his face.

“What did she tell you?” Castiel asked. Missouri had a habit of speaking truths that she ought not know, and this time, he wondered if she’d spoken about _him_ to Dean.

“Uh. Nothing.” Dean raised his gaze, meeting Castiel’s eyes as he came forward, undoing his apron. “She said, uh, not to let things stop me. And she told me to tell you the same thing.”

Castiel swallowed. Missouri had somehow known exactly what he’d been saying to Dean earlier. She was always so good at that, it was uncanny.

“What stops you?” Castiel asked. “I know what stops me doing what I want, but what stops you?”

Dean sighed, running his hand through his hair. His t-shirt rode up a little as his arm raised, and Castiel looked upon the skin of Dean’s hip, imagining himself putting a single kiss there, lips against his warm body, sinking into his soft skin.

“Hell if know,” Dean breathed. He wasn’t looking at anything, just gazing into a non-existent middle distance.

Castiel picked up a rose, smiling as he let it dance along Dean’s jaw, putting kisses there that could never come from his lips. Dean laughed, spluttering as he waved the flower down, then finally taking it between his fingers, admiring the swirl of red petals as they got smaller towards the centre.

“You... You got anywhere to be, Cas?” Dean asked, quietly.

Castiel shook his head, playing with the stem of the rose Dean held, smoothing fingers down its thornless sides. “Not until tomorrow evening. I have a date with Daphne then.”

Dean blinked, biting his lower lip very briefly, then he nodded.

Castiel sat as Dean sat, but stayed sitting as Dean hopped off his stool again and crouched to open a drawer.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the stuff.” A rattle shook the desk, and then a thump that Castiel felt more than heard. “Wire and tape and stuff.”

“What for?”

Dean puffed out a breath as he dumped a dispenser roll of green tape on the table, as well as a coil of thick cloth-like wire, and one of thinner green wire. “Flower crowns.”

Castiel frowned, watching Dean unravel a length of the thicker wire, then pick up his flower-cutting scissors and spin them on a finger. The move was impressive, but Castiel said nothing about it.

Dean leaned closer to Castiel, curling the pulled length of wire around Castiel’s head. Castiel just frowned at him until he moved away again, taking with him both the wire and an unmatchable warmth.

Dean cut the wire, folding the two ends of it so it made a circle.

“Have you done this before?” Castiel asked, as Dean did the same thing again, making a second wire loop for his own head.

Dean’s grin rose crookedly, eyes on his own hands. “Couple times. Didn’t have fresh flowers or wire or anything, though. Just a field, a lot of grass, and six hours ‘n eighteen minutes to kill.”

“So specific.”

Dean pursed his lips, hiding a smile. He handed one loop of wire to Castiel, who took it gingerly.

“Well, go on,” Dean urged, when Castiel sat and stared.

“What do I do?”

Dean’s eyes settled on Castiel’s, and he looked almost emotionless for a few seconds. “I thought you had three degrees, man. You cannot literally be this stupid.”

Castiel’s feathers ruffled, and he sat up a little straighter, defiantly reaching for a first flower stem. “I know what to _do_ , I just thought maybe there was something in particular that I ought to do. A technique, or―”

He watched Dean begin to thread a bendy-stemmed tuft of flora around his wire, twisting it a few inches, then using his free hand to snap a little bit of green tape from its dispenser and stick it around the stem. He cut away the rest of the stem, then did the same with a second flower with an equally bendy stem.

Castiel tentatively copied, but refrained from using the tape. If it was possible to make a crown without so much as a wire, he could achieve his goal without sticking it together with anything man-made.

“Why flower crowns, though,” Castiel wondered aloud. “Why _crowns_?”

Dean shrugged as he secured a thick-stemmed rose bloom with thin wire, poked like a hook through the head. “It’s symbolic crap. Like hippies at music festivals. Chicks smoking weed, singing songs, making love and dancing, making art out of dead plants.”

“Or,” Castiel smiled, “Like Jesus. With a crown of thorns as he carried his own cross.”

Dean’s fingers tracked the stem of a vine, twirling it so it attached to hide the tape he’d layered on his crown. “The only thing I can think of right now other than a rose, with a ton of thorns, is a bramble. And that’s blackberries.”

“There’s the silver lining, having blackberries,” Castiel smiled. “At least with a crown of flowers, opposed to thorns, there’s no bleeding.”

Dean chuckled, eyes flicking to Castiel’s before they returned to his crown. “Nah. It’s like... Okay, so Jesus carries his cross. And he’s struggling and he’s in pain, and there’s thorns around his head. But, like in _Sleeping Beauty_ \- the Disney version, I mean - the three good fairies turn the shower of arrows into flowers, and that’s what saves the prince. Flower crowns are like turning suffering into nice things. Something easier to deal with.”

Castiel peered at Dean curiously, watching his tiny smile. Dean looked up, the smallest of blushes on his face.

“Quit judging me, I like animated stuff, all right? _Sleeping Beauty_ ’s a classic or something.”

“I was not judging. I didn’t know what you were talking about.”

Dean looked pissed off for a moment, then it fell away and he grinned. “You’re fucking pathetic.”

“Actually, I’m not fucking anyone.”

Dean coughed a laugh, curling over the desk and spluttering as he heaved for breath. He was still giggling as he shook his head. “Oh, man. Only you could turn that into _that_ by cluelessness alone.”

Castiel smiled, loving Dean’s remaining chuckles: breathless, like they were hiding.

“So you’re really not, huh,” Dean finally said, twirling a lily in his hands, silently debating whether it would fit into his crown. “Not fucking anyone, I mean.”

Castiel said not a word on the fact that every night since he’d known Dean, he’d imagined only Dean’s body pressed to his own at night, hands sliding under his clothes. “Nobody,” Castiel confirmed. “I doubt... This is probably quite private, but I doubt that even if I married Daphne, we would consummate our marriage.”

Dean dropped the lily on the floor by mistake. “You’d... Okay, let me get this straight. You’d marry her, use all her money―”

“No, we’d have a prenuptial agreement.”

“Christ,” Dean complained. “So you’d just be going into business together, not having sex, you raising her kid...” Dean breathed slowly for a moment, eyes widening. “Wait, that’s what this is about? You’re in this just so you can... have a kid?”

Castiel shrugged. Dean wasn’t wrong.

Dean set his unfinished crown down on the table, and following his lead, Castiel stopped too, one flower stem still wrapped around a fingertip.

“Cas... Look, I don’t mean to get up in your life, and your business, but this - _that_ \- isn’t how to do what you’re doing. You don’t marry people because your parents say so. This is a modern American culture here, and that kind of thing isn’t... God. I don’t know. Maybe I was raised different, but everything you’re saying to me is ringing alarm bells in my head.”

Dean shook his head, continuing, “The way I see it, marriage is forever. Okay, _that’s_ old-fashioned, I know. But marriage means you stick with Daphne. Like, forever. You don’t screw her, and that means you don’t screw anyone ever again. You’re buying yourself into monkhood.”

Castiel cracked a smile, but Dean’s smile didn’t last.

“I’m not kidding, Cas. You gotta commit to this woman. If you don’t love her... I’m going to take a guess and say you don’t. People talk about the people they love. Like, you don’t shut up about them. I talk about Sammy the whole time, and recently I’ve been trying my best to stop, ‘cause people complain. I _think_ about him all the time. But he’s my brother, and it’s different. Different to how I think about other people I love. Certain... certain people.” He swallowed, barely meeting Castiel’s eyes. “But you, you haven’t talked about Daphne.”

Castiel looked at his thumbs, watching himself rub them against his fingers. Again, Dean wasn’t wrong.

“All I’m saying, Cas...” Dean swallowed, pausing for a long time.

“I’m saying...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

“You got a date with her tomorrow, right?” When Castiel nodded, Dean nodded, and finished, “Take her somewhere with a menu.”

“I took her to the burger place you mentioned,” Castiel said with a smile, resuming his application of flowers around the crown in his hands. “It was not as expected.”

Dean coughed. “Burger... Babes?”

“The waitress wore a bikini,” Castiel muttered. “I... I shamed myself, I think. I couldn’t look away from her breasts.”

Dean’s silence ripped apart with a guffaw, and he punched Castiel in the shoulder, then followed the nudge with a touch of his own shoulder, leaning against Castiel, then away again. “So you are a little hetero. There was me thinking you were full-out batting for the other team.”

“What other team?”

Dean grinned as he chewed his lower lip. “Gay.”

Castiel frowned deeply. “There’s a gay team?”

Dean rolled his eyes, still grinning. “How the hell are you a person, Cas? It’s like you were literally born yesterday.” He shook his head, then explained, to Castiel’s relief, “‘Batting for the other team’ is a phrase. Means you’re gay. Most guys bat for girls.”

“I’m not,” Castiel said, unsurely.

“Not which?”

Castiel’s fingers felt a little sore, and he rubbed them together as he rested his almost-complete flower crown down on the desk. “I’ve never had to think about it. Sometimes I like people, sometimes I don’t.”

Dean hummed an interested note, looking at Castiel. “Bi, then. Bisexual. Like me.”

Castiel tried and failed to hide both his smile and his blush. Something about the idea - just the _idea_ \- of Dean enjoying men in the same way that Castiel enjoyed the thought of _him_... it excited Castiel.

“I wouldn’t label me,” Castiel said, nudging Dean’s thigh with his own. “I don’t think any label would fit.”

Dean huffed with a smile, then nodded gently.

He reached over and held Castiel’s flowers together, letting Castiel move to pick a small length of tape. He could allow one piece, he decided. He wrapped it tight, and the green matte colour of the tape let it stay hidden, almost undetectable where the green stems of the flowers surrounded it.

Castiel held Dean’s crown too, letting him tape the ends. Dean’s was better crafted, and he’d done well at hiding the tape. Massive brightly-coloured blooms strained from the wire, holding strong, the overall display bold, striking, and probably heavy.

Dean picked it up, turning it over, then he tipped his head down and pressed the circlet to his head. As he straightened up, it settled.

He looked over at Castiel with a questioning smirk, tilting his head to the side.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel said.

He’d said the same thing to Daphne, the other day. But the compliment now seemed unjustly awarded. Nothing and nobody was as beautiful as Dean.

Dean’s eyes shone. “Thanks,” he whispered.

He shifted closer, scooting on his stool. He picked up Castiel’s crown, filled with delicate purples, tender whites, a small trellis of tiny ivy leaves and miniature daisies. Dean smiled as he reached up, and Castiel met his eye as Dean lowered the crown to his head.

“I crown thee, Prince Castiel, of Cupid’s Bow. Rise, O Prince.”

Castiel laughed as he stood, almost catching his foot on the bar at the base of his stool. Dean looked up at him, the lopsided line of his mouth at last breaking into a grin. He chuckled, his tongue poking out to wet his lips.

“God, Cas, that thing really... Mm.”

Castiel stood there, enjoying Dean’s eye taking him in.

Dean stood too, eyes not leaving Castiel’s. Castiel didn’t move, and his breath caught, stopped completely, as Dean walked the single step to fill his space, right against him.

Dean snorted. “You’re meant to move, Cas,” he grinned, batting Castiel’s chest with his fingers. “Go around the desk, we need to go over stuff for tomorrow.”

Castiel eased out from the front desk, feeling Dean at his heels, still close. “What stuff?”

“For your date.”

“With Daphne,” Castiel intoned, a dullness in his voice. “My date... with Daphne.”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “Yeah, you’re meant to be making your father proud, right? And marrying Daphne’s how you do it.” He pulled them around to stand together in the centre of the shop, the flowers no more than two feet away on all sides. “So, I’ll be Daphne. And you show me a good time. The kind of time that makes me know for sure that you wanna marry me.”

Castiel’s insides flipped, responding to the way Dean said the words ‘marry me’. Just the fact that he said those words at all. It made Castiel happy.

Dean cleared his throat, and scampered back to the front desk, dragging out both stools. They made a terrible noise against the tiles, but Dean gave an evil chuckle, taking some strange joy in causing Castiel’s teeth to clench.

“Now,” Dean said. “You’ve taken me somewhere with a menu.”

He fiddled with his flower crown, adjusting it, then his glasses. He pointed at the stools, then gestured in a circle between them. “This is the table,” he said.

Then he stood there, not moving.

Castiel stood there, not moving.

Dean sighed, shoulders slumping. He adopted a horrendously dramatic femininity, rolling his eyes as he said, “Gosh, Castiel, I’m real glad you picked this restaurant, I’ve wanted to visit here for _ever_.”

“Daphne doesn’t talk like that,” Castiel said. “And nor do you.”

“Shut up and pull out my chair, dumbass.”

Castiel smiled, going to shift the stool a few inches back. His thumbs felt the solid warmth of Dean’s ass as he sat down, and Castiel pulled away, hand dragging on Dean’s side the same way Dean had taken to doing each time he passed by.

Castiel pointedly arranged his own stool, then sat, his knees touching Dean’s as they faced each other.

“Tell me about your dreams,” Dean said, in his airy fake voice.

Castiel grimaced. “Please stop talking like that.”

Dean pouted, fluttering his eyelashes in a very obvious way. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

Castiel groaned, leaning into his hands in embarrassment.

Dean laughed as Castiel’s flower crown rolled off his head and onto Dean’s lap. Dean replaced it, hands smoothing down Castiel’s neck as he went.

Castiel straightened, sighing as he met Dean’s gaze. “Don’t be Daphne,” he said. “Just... be you. Please.”

Dean clucked, then nodded gracefully. “Fine, asshole.”

“What do we talk about on a date?” Castiel asked.

“What do you and her usually talk about?”

Castiel shrugged. “Work. We already buy property together. I barely spoke to her prior to last week, but since then, we’ve decided to expand a part of my father’s business, a few hundred miles south.”

Dean frowned. “What is this business, exactly? Sounds hella powerful.”

“It’s really not that interesting.”

“If you keep shrouding it in secrecy, it’s going to sound interesting.”

Castiel smirked. “This is a terrible date topic.”

Dean blew a raspberry, sliding his hands under his thighs. “Talk about your paintings or something.”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t do that, I don’t talk about it. And I don’t show anyone.”

“Shame,” Dean said. It looked like he meant it.

But then he sighed, shaking his head, and he stood up. “Skip this, it’s boring. You’ll find something to bond over, I betcha. Now _after_ the date, that’s the good part. You know what happens then, right?”

Castiel answered in the negative.

Dean replaced the stools behind the desk, then took his flower crown off, spun it around, and replaced it on his head. This time a red rose hung over his ear, orange blooms curled over his forehead, a sunflower grazing an eyebrow. The vines twisted them all together, and his green eyes seemed blatantly honest in the sunlight.

“After the date,” he said, “you walk her home. If she hurries, that’s a bad sign, that means she wants to get away. Unless she’s in a hurry to get to her daughter, you go slow. Hold her hand, lock your fingers together.” Dean raised a hand, and slid his own fingers between them, folding them to demonstrate their lock.

Castiel wished he’d used _his_ hand to demonstrate.

Dean dropped his hands, separated now. “Keep her talking, swing your hands, laugh a little.” Dean’s smile was ghostly, wistful. Castiel wondered if he was recalling some other love gone by.

Dean sucked his lips between his teeth, looking down and away. “Then... then when you get her home. What’s her house like?”

“Um, Victorian, blue, big. Steps at the front, a tall porch with a light at the top.”

Dean nodded, then went to the far side of the shop, lifted a wire arch covered in flowering ivy out of its place on a shelf, then carried it over to the front desk.

As he set the arch’s thin black feet down, it locked between the side of the desk and an inch-thick protruding part of the wall. The arch was apparently a part of the actual shop, having been moved away from its home some time ago. Its ivy was growing from tiny pots in the base, and at its full height, the arch almost reached the ceiling, certainly tall enough to mimic Daphne’s porch.

“There.” Dean dusted off his hands, backing up to stand at Castiel’s side, shoulders touching.

Castiel’s heart shuddered as Dean slid his hand to hold Castiel’s.

Castiel looked at Dean, seeing him staring straight ahead, eyes wide, lips slowly closing, the faintest hint of a smile on their corners.

“Um,” Dean said, swallowing. “Um, then, we - you and her, I mean - you walk up the steps...”

They took laughably petite tiptoeing steps towards the arch, Dean’s fingers moving to lock between Castiel’s as they went.

“Uh-huh,” Dean said, approvingly, as they huddled together in the space under the arch. Their middles pressed together, Dean’s warmth bleeding under Castiel’s shirt, only the white cloth and Dean’s grey t-shirt separating their stomachs. Castiel could sense the coffee on Dean’s breath, hear the soft rasp as he breathed.

“I... had a really great time today, Cas,” Dean said, as Daphne, but in his own voice. Hearing his low notes from so close made Castiel’s body thrum, heat on his skin, electricity in his veins. “Gotta... do that again, sometime.”

“Dean, what do I do when we’re on the porch?” Castiel asked.

Dean shook his head. “You’ll know. C’mon, Cas,” he muttered, swaying their joined hands a little, then letting Castiel’s hand go to slide his fingers up the inside of his wrist instead. “C’mon, you _know_ what to do now.”

Castiel could smell the perfume of Dean’s crown, and maybe his own, too.

He could smell their heat. Bodies. Clothes, skin, sweat.

Dean’s breath.

Dean tipped his head down, drawing Castiel’s eye upward so they stared at each other from inches away.

Castiel gulped. “I had... a nice time too, today, Dean. _Daphne_!”

Dean smiled. “It’s okay. You can call me Dean.”

Castiel nodded, pressing his lips flat. “Dean, I’m...”

He felt a pressure, such a _pressure_. Desire. He knew what to do. But he ought not do it.

Dean sucked on his lower lip, then let it slide free, wet and plump. Castiel watched it shimmer, the wetness fading as Dean’s heat evaporated it.

“Date’s gotta end, Cas,” Dean murmured. “Show me how to say goodbye.”

Castiel leaned in close. Knew not to do it. Wanted to anyway. He kissed.

Dean closed his eyes, Castiel closed his, and surged forward. Lips met mouth, and Dean opened his, tongue tasting Castiel’s lips, wet as they turned. Castiel breathed out, his exhale hot on Dean’s cheek, feeling his glasses frames pressing into his face.

His hands took Dean’s hips, held them. Dean made a sound, a whimper riding on a breath, and he breathed out too, grunting as he pushed his lips - _forced_ them - into Castiel’s. Castiel tasted his saliva, gasping, shaking at the taste.

He felt incredible; hot and burning all over - but even the rolling, sucking motions of their mouths couldn’t give his mind anything but satiation, cool and soothing.

Dean let free a soft sound, a hand falling firmly around Castiel’s head, pressing half to his hair, half to the crown of flowers. Castiel let him control his head, let him twist so he could mouth at him deeper, their stubble burning together, not sure if the eyelashes on his cheek were Dean’s or his own.

Castiel bit Dean’s lip, then his own, turned their heads, continuing the kiss from the other side. He too let free a basic sound, helpless and weak. He felt Dean smiling against him as their lips parted, met again, sighing.

Castiel rocked his hips into Dean’s, rushing with an excitement he had no control over. One of Dean’s hands fell with a slap to Castiel’s ass, pushing him closer, making him press to Dean’s hip. Castiel couldn’t concentrate enough to tell if Dean was hardening too, but he did wonder if Dean felt his reaction.

Dean’s kiss, his lips... his _mouth_...

It felt impossible to breathe, even when they _were_ breathing, and constantly. Air didn’t seem to go to Castiel’s brain, just into his exhales, panting as he ran teeth along Dean’s lip, hands clutched to his body, holding him still while he rocked gently against him, so gently he might as well be doing nothing.

Dean groaned, rolled his head back, breaking the kiss for the first time. Castiel made a pathetic sound of want, moving his face to press to Dean’s, putting a kiss on his sore lips, a tiny lap of his tongue tracing the ridge between stubble and lip.

Dean sighed a shaky exhale, nosing into Castiel’s cheek, putting a kiss there.

“I think,” Dean whispered. “I - I think, Daphne will like that.”

“Good?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Cas, was good. Mhh.” Dean’s head drooped, and he nuzzled into Castiel’s head, putting a kiss on his jaw. “God... really fuckin’ good.”

Castiel was still flushed with heat, every inch of his skin aflame. He wanted to make love to Dean. Make him _naked_. Kiss every part of him, worship every part of him.

“And,” Dean said, swallowing hard. “And, now. Now’s... where you leave.”

Castiel gulped, collecting himself. He couldn’t look at Dean as he turned his eyes to the ivy-draped arch above them, the sun framing the leaves with inches of gold. He sighed into the air, feeling Dean’s hands slip down, dragging against his lower back, finally resting on his hips.

Then Dean pulled away, and Castiel’s roaring energy - lust - dissipated as quickly as water thrown over a fire.

“Don’t forget your coat,” Dean said, a nervous smile in his voice. Castiel felt the coat pressed into his loose hand, and he took it, touching it, looking at it.

He nodded, and moved out of the archway, towards the door.

“Cas―”

Castiel paused before he reached the door.

“Don’t be a stranger. Come back sometime soon. I... m- miss you, when you’re not here.”

Castiel got the impression that Dean was very, very rarely that open with anybody. He nodded again, and as a tiny, relieved smile rose on his face, he let himself out into the sun, into the real world.

He looked back once as he walked down the slope, in through the window. Dean caught his eye, and under his flower crown, he looked happier than Castiel had ever seen him before. Confused, but happy.

As his feet skimmed the bricks, walking to the main road, Castiel supposed that, actually, he felt about the same. Confused. But... yes, happy.

✿

“What’s got _your_ panties all loosened up?”

Dean snorted at Gabriel as he passed him, unable to tamp down on his smile. “The hell you saying about my panties? Aren’t you meant to be at work? Oh, that’s right, you’re unemployed.”

Gabriel shut the refrigerator door, a tub of ice cream in one hand, a long spoon in the other. “Whoever said I was unemployed?”

Dean turned to look back at Gabriel, fiddling with his flower crown as he held it between his fingers.

Gabriel smirked, rested his elbows on the kitchen sidebar, and shovelled a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “I got promoted, actually. To head waiter. And - heh heh - boyfriend.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, turning away and heading for the bathroom. “Good for you.”

“Don’t use my shampoo!” Gabriel bellowed, just as Dean shut the door between them.

Dean stood in front of the mirror, astounded at how different his face looked. This morning he’d been looking into Charlie’s mirror instead, and he’d looked like absolute crap. Right now, though...

His eyes were gleaming. They looked like freaking _anime_ eyes - and his smile... God. He looked a million bucks, and that was saying something. The last time he’d looked this good in the mirror, he’d been roofied by a cat burglar. And Dean was pretty sure he’d imagined that whole thing, so it probably didn’t count.

There was only one thing to do in this situation, and Dean left the bathroom to do it.

Sam had a habit of leaving his expensive phone behind when he went to university classes. He usually took Dean’s cellphone, which was only good for calling home and sometimes texting. It served its purpose - and in leaving the other one home, that too served Dean’s purpose.

Dean cradled the shiny phone in his hands as he hurried back to the bathroom, thumbing through controls to find the app he wanted.

“You gonna take photos of your dick?” Gabriel chuckled from the kitchen, while showering coloured sugar sprinkles over his ice cream. “That’s gonna ruin Sam’s day, you crafty devil.”

Dean closed the door.

He grinned at the mirror, placing the flower crown on his head, biting his lower lip without really noticing. He was panting in excitement, and yes, he was a little bit hard.

This wasn’t a prank for Sam, like the ones they sometimes played on each other. This wasn’t a bucket of glitter over the door or a print-out of a clown face on the toilet seat. This unrelated in every way. This wasn’t about Sam at all.

This was about Cas.

Dean took his shirt off, being careful with the crown, then smoothed his hand down his middle. He looked all right. The light in the bathroom came in hazy and fair-golden as the afternoon sun caressed the side of the building. Dean could take a pretty good picture in this light.

Dean had flutters in his gut, hundreds of them all at once; he felt tickled by what he was about to do, and a thick pressure pulsed in his lower half. His jeans seemed plump, and he just couldn’t resist touching, just once.

He held back a moan, watching his hand trace the fat line of his cock through the denim. He could smell the flowers on his head, and their colours reflected back on his face, making him look amazing. He couldn’t deny it. He was kind of getting off on how _hot_ he looked right now, and there probably wasn’t anything wrong with that thought. He liked how he looked, very much.

If Cas could see him right now...

That was the point. Not a prank. An offering.

Dean raised the camera, pointing it at the mirror. His eyes darted to the real-time visual on the screen, trying to frame the shot. He let it cut off at his waistline, since he had no intention of actually displaying anything explicit. Except his nipples.

The first shot came out fuzzy, since Dean got a little distracted playing with his exposed nipples, which he was fond of touching. He let the camera droop for a minute after, taking the time to breathe. Fingers rubbing, nails dragging, thumb allowing just a single pinch. He made himself gasp, cock twitching in his jeans.

The second shot, he was too obvious, his hand too clearly touching his cock. He wanted to leave it to Castiel’s imagination. If Cas wanted to see it as a sexy shot, he’d be free to. But if Cas didn’t want that, if he was actually set on loving _Daphne_ , then sure. He could just see it as a friendly, dude-to-dude snapshot. ...In the bathroom mirror, topless, with the barest hint of an erection.

Dean smirked at his reflection. Crafty devil indeed.

Dean was toeing the line here. He wanted to stir things up, mess with Cas’ head, mess with his desires. He felt mischievous, and that kiss - oh boy, that kiss...

That kiss had prompted Dean to want what he wanted even more.

Missouri hadn’t said a _word_ to him, which was certainly a first. She’d offered no advice at all. Dean just went ahead and told Cas to take what he wanted, just for the hell of it. Because Dean wanted Cas, and he wanted him _passionately_.

Dean snapped shot after shot, each time deleting it. He needed it to be perfect. By all means, he was not unphotogenic. But he wanted Cas to practically come in his pants at the sight of him, and there were only so many ways Dean could achieve that while technically keeping it clean.

He finally got the photo he was after. His glasses were off, neatly folded by the sink. The sun caught his eyes better like this - and without his glasses, Dean looked like he might be just about to go in the shower. The unbuttoned jeans said much along the same lines. The lack of underwear... well, that was just a day in the life of Dean. Cas would find out about Dean’s love of going commando sooner or later, so why not now?

The shot cut off just at the base of Dean’s cock. The light brushed on the edge of his pubic hair, and somehow, it drew the eye without being too obvious. His erection couldn’t be seen, not unless Cas was to look really, _really_ carefully at the angle and the light.

The flower crown turned Dean from a man into a prince, and Dean stood, staring at the photo, whacking off to the sight of himself. Cas could see him like that. Cas would like it, Dean knew he would.

Dean bit his lip and moaned, eyebrows folding outwards as he saw how arousal shaped his own face in the picture. His cheeks were flushed, freckles hidden by the high colour. He watched his hand move on his cock, the silken slide from base to tip guided by his thumb, moving slick in the pre-come that had already left a dot of darkness in his jeans.

He closed his eyes, then inhaled.

The scent of flowers meant so much more than just his work, now. Flowers meant Castiel, and the thought of him brought with it the feeling of elation that had hijacked Dean’s body - not only now, but every time. Every _god_ damn time Dean was with Cas.

That stupid little flat, awkward smile. Stupid blue eyes, too fucking blue to be real.

That voice. Deeper and rougher and _sexier_ than anything Dean ever wanted before, whispering loving words against the nape of his neck; rolling, smooth; dark words and naughty hands, tiny private smiles keeping secrets in the night.

Dean thought about Cas twice as much as he thought about anything else. He was like the default thought, now. Close his eyes, and Dean would see Castiel.

Dean saw Castiel’s face to his own, lips on his mouth, tongue against his.

Dean whimpered, whined, made a terrible, useless noise. The light behind his eyelids blacked for a moment, rushed with a haul of stars, and then...

He opened his eyes, panting for breath. His vision was fuzzy, unable to see his own face in the mirror without his glasses. But he could see the vague slump of his shoulders, the rise and fall of his collar bones where his post-orgasm exhaustion made him sag. He felt the twitch of a smile on his lips, and he hung his head, chuckling to himself.

Semen slid down his wrist, warm and thick. He cleared his throat, wiping it on his chest, intending to wash himself down in just a minute.

He looked to the phone in his hand, took a final glance at the image, and selected the number to send the picture.

He grinned as the message finished sending. He rolled his head back to his shoulders, sighing as his flower crown shifted an inch. Then he opened his eyes. And frowned.

“Gabe!” he shouted, “Is this your toast on the ceiling?”

✿

Castiel had done it. He’d given in to desire.

He didn’t know how long he’d been holding back. Years, it had to be. But he’d finally given in, and just _gone_ for it.

He’d _watched a science-fiction television show_.

The episode ended, and he slumped back in the couch, grinning at the ceiling. It felt like a burden had been lifted. So long he’d not let himself watch what he wanted, not willing to enjoy things he saw advertised. He’d write them off as ‘silly’. Not important, not something that would further him in any way at all.

But perhaps it took his will breaking for him to realise that, actually, enjoying things _was_ a way to better himself. Falling in love with characters, with storylines that had no bearing on anything... Yes, that was a part of him. He liked the mediocre, because there was no demand.

There was no insistence for him. He didn’t have to come back next week and watch Fucks Mulder and Dana Scowly solve strange supernatural crimes. Or whatever their names were. He could watch a different show, and their fake lives would go on, other people enjoying them instead of Castiel. He didn’t _have_ to interact with them, not face-to-face, and yet, he still got to learn about their lives.

It was like making a friend. A perfect, wonderful friend.

He curled up on his couch in a burst of laughter, hands over his face. He _loved_ television.

He felt like crying for joy. He’d never _loved_ anything like this before. It made him excited, it made him tingle all over, it made him _want_ to keep watching. It was just like Dean. Dean was addictive the same way.

Castiel wanted to watch every episode of Dean twice over, pause on every frame to soak up the secrets he might have missed at first glance. He wanted to learn his theme music, and fall asleep to the sound of his greatest lines played over and over.

Fall asleep to the sound of his voice.

Castiel’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and for a little while, he stayed curled up, hoping it would buzz again, because it felt quite nice.

But he sighed, and uncurled to slip his hand into his pocket, retrieving his phone.

It was a message from Sam. Frowning, Castiel sat up. What could this be about?

He opened it. It comprised of no text, only an image.

Castiel’s breath seemed to simultaneously stop and drag in deep as he took in the sight of the image, which was certainly not sent by Sam.

Dean... topless. Wearing the flower crown they’d made a few hours ago. And unless he was imagining it, it looked to Castiel that Dean was slightly aroused.

Castiel coiled over the couch, a blatant moan escaping his lips, a throb finding his his cock like a missile. He felt himself hardening without a touch, and he just let the pleasure take him over. He already felt amazing, and he wanted to prolong it, heighten it.

Dean would never know Castiel was going to masturbate to the thought of him, just like he’d remained oblivious about every other time he had.

Castiel set down the phone on the leather, his breath coming quick and hot over his lips as he unbuttoned his jeans, grinding his hips into his hand as he dragged the zipper down. The metal teeth were still stiff from newness, but he separated the opening, fingers dipping to push the line of his boxers down.

He smiled as his cock lifted free. So many years of sexual abstinence kept it wanting, hungry - always hungry. Men Castiel’s age were meant to find it difficult to do what he did so easily, but Castiel? No. He was insatiable, and he knew it.

He never let anyone know how much he loved to touch. He didn’t even let his cleaner see his wastebaskets filled with used tissues, and he kept his assisting lotions well-hidden. The secrecy of his sins kept it fun.

Ah, yes. _This_. His hand circled his cockhead, entertaining thoughts of Dean with the shadows and colours of flowers curved across his beautiful face... Yes, this was a sin.

Castiel had ended his attachment with God. The Judeo-Christian stories held nothing for him but curiosity now. But his mother’s words lingered. He knew what would count as sin without ever being explicitly told, and this was it.

The mouth of another man around him, hands in places nobody else ever sought to look at, nor touch.

Cock in hand, plumping, hot - _leaking_...

Castiel sucked on his lip and rolled his hips into his hand, watching the hard flesh slip into his fist. So wet, so greedy for contact.

His eyes roamed the sight of Dean, the little glowing picture in his phone. Such an expression he wore: dark-eyed, reddened lips, open like he was about to speak, about to moan in pleasure. Beautifully carved, like a true angel. Flawless.

The crown sat slanted on his head, the blooms’ glory an equal match for Dean. Creations of something beyond this world.

Castiel cupped his scrotum, massaging his dampened, sticky fingers into the fine dusting of hair on the soft underside. He lapped at the skin, a burst of breath coming free as the touch became Dean’s tongue. Dean, hot and wet, sucking on Castiel’s barest features. Kissing him in all the secret places that he’d never show Daphne.

Castiel called out into the dusky air of his living room, thankful for the closed curtains, for the silence that enshrouded this room. In the hollow emptiness of his home, he could hear his own breath. His fast gasps, the slick, wet sound of his hand as it pulled. The ruffle of cloth as he spread his legs.

Dean had sent him pleasure, as a gift, and Castiel didn’t know his reasoning, but he knew the purpose of this image. Dean had sent this photo because he wanted to share his art; the flower crown atop his head was his creation, and as Dean said the other day, artists and art should be preserved together. Perhaps it was only coincidental that his hardened nipples and flushed skin had become part of the art, and by design, the photo was another artwork in itself.

Castiel put three fingers in his mouth, tasting his own pre-ejaculate, heart throbbing harder in reaction to the taste. Oh, it was so pure. Like one single surge of his own pleasure, liquid, put back to his body to offer himself a taste. He could feel his tongue on his fingers, and his fingers on his tongue, becoming the oroboros, providing his own sensations.

This is why he loved to touch himself. Nobody else could ever provide such solitary connection. If Dean could offer a gift of a picture, what he’d really provided was the opportunity for Castiel to feel what he loved to feel. That was the real gift, was it not?

Castiel smiled.

Then he laughed, a deep and dragging sound that rolled in his chest.

He could give Dean a gift, too. Just the same.

He left the phone on the couch, keeping his fingers wet by his side, clenched in a fist so the passing air didn’t chill them. He went to his bedroom door and lifted his own flower crown from the door handle, where he’d left it to dry so he could keep it.

It was still fresh, still firm. He placed it on his head with his dry hand, feeling the prickles of some stems, the leaves of others. A lilac-coloured sprig drifted in his face, but he left it dangling, hoping Dean would see it to be the same as Castiel: loose, undone, wilting as the day wore on - but as of now, still firm.

Castiel sat back on the couch, his neck pressed to the backrest, phone in hand, cock in the other. He groaned with a partly-open mouth, teeth gnawing on nothing. He wanted to suck on something, something that wasn’t himself. What he wouldn’t give to have Dean here, right now. Clothes falling off him, cut at the seams.

Castiel had imagined it too often. He just wanted to _tear_ Dean’s clothes off. There were so many ways to make him vulnerable for Castiel, and nakedness seemed like the most obvious way. Castiel wanted him so very naked that it went beyond a lack of clothing. Bare with emotion, raw with want.

Castiel still didn’t have that any other way, nobody who needed him. The pansy in his bedroom barely counted at all; it was small and quiet, and only needed water once a week.

Dean...

Dean was new. Dean was what Castiel wanted.

Castiel reached for the image of Dean again, taking a starving satisfaction at the sight of his smile in his mind. Cheekbones edged by sun, eyes flecked with gold, freckles like the best-examined feature of a painter’s favourite muse.

Castiel’s eyes slid to devour the sight of the photo in his hand again. And then he turned the phone to the camera setting, raising it above his head to look at the lens.

He blinked slowly, easing his hasty breath, as well as his hand on his cock.

Dean hadn’t been obvious. Castiel ought not be either; what if Daphne were to see this?

Castiel felt a squirm inside him, a good feeling. Dirty good. He put a finger in his mouth, sucked it clean of pre-come, then wiped it on his shirt. The buttons were half-undone, and he could feel the heat on his chest. Tie askew.

He smiled for Dean, and took the picture.

He brought it to his lap to look at it. His erection wasn’t visible, and he wondered if he should retake the picture so that it was. But he shook his head, deciding the photo was fine. His eyes looked half-shut, his lips swollen with arousal. He appeared pliable, body relaxed on the couch, molded to it. His shirt had ridden up a little, and his hip bone was sharp, raised slightly as he bucked.

He sent the photo, and kept looking at it once it was sent. He did look quite good. He’d never seen himself in such a state before, and he rather liked it.

He mumbled a long note, returning to look at the photo of Dean, so he could finish what he’d started.

He stared, smiled, and touched himself until his head was filled with nothing but imagined sounds of Dean saying his name. Calling him ‘Castiel’, the name of an angel.

Dean’s angel.

Castiel came at the thought. He watched white lines spill from his slit, sticking to his hip, to the hem of his shirt. He kept bucking into his squeezing hand until he was dry, the last drip forced from him by a fierce tug, so intense that his cockhead purpled and he cried out in near-pain, still on the edge of pleasure.

He shivered as he settled down, taking deep breaths, trying hard to keep from falling asleep. He moaned a little under his breath, revelling in the softness of his body now. He could smell the aroma of his delicate crown, the tiny flowers so rewarding to wear.

He lost his battle, and awoke an hour later to evening shade, the buzz of his phone startling him from on top of his foot. He grumbled as he leaned forward, wincing at the stickiness of his skin, the chill on his hand.

He read the message his phone showed him, the sender named as Sam. But the actual sender was clearly Dean.

_Hot as hell, Cass._

Castiel reacted to the words, and he almost wanted to complain about the misspelling of the shortened version of his name. Alas, he was exhausted - but his body apparently had other plans, heating with want, knowing Dean liked the picture. He let the feeling cool, until the urge to touch faded.

He sat for a minute, wondering.

Then he connected to his home wi-fi, and he looked up a word.

_Infidelity_.

The first result gave him “ _The act of being unfaithful to a sexual partner, especially a spouse_ ”.

Daphne was never a sexual partner to Emanuel. Neither was she a spouse. Technically, she wasn’t even his girlfriend. They’d never kissed, they’d never had any sexual contact at all. Emanuel still felt unease at the mere thought of ever doing so. He couldn’t trace the root of that feeling, but in all the time he’d known her personally, he’d been comparing her to Dean, and she only seemed quietly mellow; small in the shadow of Dean’s spice and heat.

In another time, under another arrangement, he supposed he would have loved her. But Dean had taken that possibility away. Castiel was hopelessly falling for Dean, and he didn’t want to fight it. Dean made him feel like life was easy.

Dean would teach Castiel how to woo Daphne, teach him how to show that he loved her. Dean knew how to love a woman, and Castiel needed his guidance. Like the kiss they’d shared today; that was how Castiel would need to kiss Daphne. If they kissed like that, it meant they were in love.

But could Castiel continue to play games in his head with Dean, while still aiming to marry Daphne?

It wouldn’t hurt anyone. They were only fantasies, after all. What he did with real-life Dean was practice. Teaching. A lesson on love. That was all.

It wasn’t infidelity. Not a sin.

With a soft sigh, Castiel made his way to the shower, leaving the phone behind. He’d never find the words to reply to Dean, so he ought not ruin how this exchange had gone. Whenever he saw Dean next, that would be the time to share more. As of now, he only intended to share with himself.

✿

Dean sang to himself as he did the laundry. He sang to himself in the shower. He hummed through dinner, until Sam flicked a bean at him.

Sam and Sarah were the only other ones home tonight, and they both seemed to know what was up, but neither asked. Dean wished they would, because he was dying to talk about Castiel. He wanted to tell someone they’d kissed.

But a layer of guilt lined his happiness, because he knew that if he spoke about Castiel, he’d end up talking about Daphne, too. It wouldn’t do for Dean to tell his closest friends that _he_ was the other woman.

Somehow, though, even the knowledge that Daphne and Cas might kiss tomorrow night didn’t stop him singing.

At midnight, Lucifer left Dean’s bedroom and went to stand on Dean as he sat reading on the couch. Dean yelped at the claws that sank into his bare leg, and as he watched the fat cat plod away again, he realised he’d been humming while reading.

After enlisting Sam’s assistance in holding Lucifer down to clean the blood off his claws, Dean slapped a band-aid on his leg and sank back into his bedding. Damn what the cat thought of Metallica, or Nat King Cole’s greatest hits; Dean was going to hum until his throat gave out, he was just that happy.


	7. It's Not You, It's You-'n-Me

Daphne laughed softly as Emanuel took her coat, getting it stuck on her sleeve. He apologised, frowning, but he saw her face shining golden in the light of the restaurant as she turned, and he couldn’t help the reactive smile that lifted.

He couldn’t pull out her chair for her like Dean had told him to, as they had been shown to a booth, a continuous red leather seat around a circular table. The booths either side sat other couples, their words hushed amongst the tinkling piano music that played in the background.

Emanuel let Daphne sit first, then tucked his tie against his belly as he sat opposite, sweeping his front down.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands; he tried setting them on his thighs, but he worried Daphne might think he was touching himself - which was a crazy thought - but all he’d been able to do last night was exactly that. Only, he wasn’t thinking about Daphne as he did it.

He clasped his hands before him on the table, wringing his fingers. He worried his nervousness would show, so he set his grip upon his elbows. Worried he would look closed-off, he instead curled his fists flat on the tabletop, but worried he would look angry.

“Emanuel.”

Emanuel looked up, exhaling as he saw Daphne’s bright eyes, her straight mouth pulled into a curious smile.

“Are you worried about something?”

Emanuel pulled in a breath, unsure how to explain. But Daphne leaned in first, reaching a hand across the table to caress one of his fists. Her hand was warm, soft, and very reassuring.

“I don’t bite, hon.”

Emanuel laughed uncomfortably, tipping his eyes to the table. “That really isn’t what worries me.”

Daphne gave his fist a little shake, then withdrew her hand. “Just take it easy. They’ll be here with the menu in just a tick. How about you order for me, hm? Sure you’ll pick something perfect.”

Emanuel met her eye with such uncertainty that she sighed, lips tightened.

“You don’t do this often?”

Emanuel shook his head. “Never like this.”

Daphne laughed; that quiet, gentle sound. Emanuel looked up again to see her fingers curled beside her lips, her body swaying in a way that came across as affectionate.

He bit the inside of his lip. “May I ask you something?”

“Oh, of course. Anything.”

A waiter came to the table just then, her long dark hair tied up behind her head, slung over one shoulder. “Apologies for the wait, we’re quite busy tonight.” She glanced at her notepad, then to Emanuel in surprise. “I see this table is reserved for Montmorency?”

“Emanuel Montmorency, yes,” Emanuel said, nodding.

“Wonderful,” the waiter said, with a smile. Her red lipstick barely showed over her dark lips, yet still managed to look red. “My name’s Kali, I’ll be your server for this evening. It’s such an honour to have you and your date here with us tonight, sir.”

“The honour is all ours.” Emanuel bowed his head, not looking anywhere but the table. “Thank you,” he added as Kali turned away.

Strange, her name seemed familiar. Something he’d heard in the past few days, perhaps years ago.

Perhaps something he’d heard on TV. He’d watched a few new shows today, some names were bound to linger in his mind.

“What was it you wanted to ask?” Daphne prompted, while opening her menu.

“Oh.” Emanuel gulped. “Yes. Yes... What... what is it you see in me? Because when... I’m with you, I don’t see anything worth appreciating. In myself, I mean. Not in you. You’re a wonderful woman. Pretty,” he hastened to tell her, remembering Dean’s terrible flirtatious voice and fluttering eyelashes. “You’re very pretty. And, and... successful.”

He recalled the card tossed over Dean’s shoulder. She already knows she’s successful, Dean had said to Castiel. No need to tell her.

“Sorry,” Emanuel said, staring at the line that said ‘ _Volaille en Gelee_ ’ over and over, pretending to read the whole menu.

Daphne was laughing behind her hand, shoulders shaking. “You really haven’t done this before.”

“It shows,” Emanuel guessed.

“Yeah.” Daphne tilted her head, her hair swaying over her thin wrists, briefly catching on the golden bracelet she wore. “But you’re not doing too badly.”

She was quiet for a little while, and Emanuel made use of the time to panic about what she would like him to order. He read French, but it wasn’t translating too well in his head at present.

“When I see you, Emanuel, I see...”

Emanuel looked up sharply, intent on absorbing her answer.

“I see a younger man,” Daphne said, with a nod. She held his eye and continued, “The men I’ve met... _seen_ , gone on dates with, they don’t talk like you do. They might talk of big things just like you, but they talk about those things, and they see grandness and bigness and what have you.”

Emanuel felt comforted knowing he was not the only one who compared his date to other people.

“You,” Daphne said, flicking playful fingers at him, “You talk business, but you don’t... I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but you don’t seem all that bothered by it. You always listen better when I talk about Juliette, and as a mother, that’s great for me. Nobody likes hearing a mother complain about the kids, but _you_ do. Or―” she laughed, “you seem to.”

“I do like hearing about her,” Emanuel smiled. “I’ve never seen a family dynamic like yours. I was―” He cleared his throat, eyes to the carpet beside the table. “I was raised by my father, once my mother passed. I was raised like Juliette, one parent. But it wasn’t the same as what you have with her. And yet, after talking with her... I could see that she knows what her mother needs.”

“Oh?” Daphne smiled, and Emanuel look up to meet her eye. “And what’s that?”

“Somebody special,” Emanuel said, softly. “Somebody to... take care of her.”

Daphne’s gaze faltered for the first time, and she blinked at her hands, colour rising on her pale cheeks. “She said that?”

“Not in so many words. Actually, mostly it was Dean who told me that.”

Daphne’s interest piqued, and she leaned over the table, her hawk-eyed stare set on Emanuel. “About this Dean fellow. You keep talking about him. Or mentioning him, at least. I haven’t been counting or anything, but this has got to be at least the twentieth time you’ve said his name since we started dating.”

Emanuel tried to cover a blush of his own, scratching his ear as he looked away.

“I mean, he’s obviously a good friend of yours. Sells flowers, or so I heard you say.”

“Yes.” Emanuel swallowed, a thin smile rising. “Yes, he sells the most beautiful flowers. I don’t know how to explain it, but every bouquet feels like a gift. He’s so... careful with them. I can see how much love he has for them, and for his family. I think his family is just his brother, but he cares for everybody around him.”

He smiled at the thought of Missouri, a hundred flowers sold cheap to make flower crowns for orphaned children. To make their suffering a little less painful. No thorns on the roses.

“I’ve never known anyone to love as much as Dean does,” Emanuel finished, quietly. For a few seconds, he became Castiel. He too was loved by Dean, since it was impossible not to be. Just the passing thought made him drown in his inner warmth, and he was surely flushed all over as he looked up to Daphne, feeling his eyes shining.

“Gosh,” she said, a strange tilt on her lips. “Some friend, huh?”

Emanuel chuckled, looked at his hands, loose on the tabletop. “Some friend.”

They spent a few minutes in silence with their menus, communicating in hums and frowns, tutting and showing each other dish names.

Once Kali arrived back at their table, Emanuel ordered something he could read on paper but wouldn’t attempt to pronounce, and let Daphne order her own dish. She’d seen his desperate expression, laughed, and spoken in such fluent French that Emanuel’s tongue twisted just hearing it flow from her mouth.

“Impressive,” Emanuel said, once Kali’s back was turned.

Daphne seemed flattered.

They discussed Juliette again. In fact, she was their main topic of conversation until their food arrived more than half an hour later, the hor d’oeuvres taken away as their steaming main courses arrived.

They never once discussed business over the course of the meal, and Emanuel was grateful. They’d both learned how to talk to one another; discussion came easier than before, laughter bubbling up every few minutes. Daphne swayed to the music, hummed sometimes, when she recognised the song. Emanuel watched her earrings dance over her shoulders, smiled at how peaceful she looked.

She liked him a lot, it was easy to see. Occasionally he wondered if it were terrible of him to not feel the same way. She’d not yet asked to kiss him, so perhaps she felt as platonically towards him as he did towards her. But would she expect consummation later on? They’d never discussed it, and he didn’t think here and now would be the right place to ask.

Their main courses were taken away, Kali’s wide lipsticked smile leaving a warmth in her wake.

As Daphne dabbed at her lips with her napkin, Emanuel sought to mention her lipstick, too.

“You know, they test those cosmetics on monkeys,” he said, gesturing to her mouth. “It does seem cruel to me... I don’t think they have any choice in the matter.” He sighed sadly, truly wishing he could change at least the part of humanity that thought those crimes were acceptable. “I have all the money I could ever dream of having, but I still couldn’t save them all.”

His eyes wandered to the table, observing a dash of sauce that had splashed from his plate. “Monkeys are so clever, and they’re sensible, in that they leave the skins on the bananas that they eat. Is it really necessary to test cosmetics on them?” He looked up, meeting Daphne’s stare. “I mean, how important is lipstick, to you, Daphne?”

Daphne lowered her eyes, pushing her lips together.

Emanuel squinted at the leather seat beside her head. “I could buy them. Or steal them from their cages, the monkeys. But where would I put them all?”

“Excuse me,” Daphne said, standing up from her seat.

Emanuel made to say something else, but Daphne passed him, a trail of perfume following her. It was meant to smell like flowers, but knowing the smell of real flowers so well, the smell of Dean, she didn’t smell right at all.

He craned his head around the side of the booth, watching her disappear through a door in the back. He had a feeling he’d said the wrong thing. Decent people cared about animal rights, didn’t they? Daphne didn’t strike Emanuel as the sort of person who wouldn’t care.

He sat like that, staring after her, confused.

“Are you okay, sir?” came a voice.

Emanuel looked up into the face of a chubby-cheeked waiter, his bow tie not done up correctly, a smear of someone else’s lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

“Um,” Emanuel said. He swallowed, then offered his napkin. “You have lipstick on your face.”

The waiter bustled on his feet, then took the napkin and patted around his face, eyes looking quickly to the other booths. He cleared his throat, tucked the used napkin under his arm alongside the silver tray he held, and thanked Emanuel.

“But I wasn’t kidding,” the waiter said, blinking at Emanuel. “Is something the matter?”

Emanuel glanced to the door Daphne had gone through. “How would I know if I’ve gone wrong?”

“Usually there’s signs,” the waiter said, a knowing smile making his long nose lift at the sides. “Cold glaring eyes, snappiness, hasty retreats that somehow keep you looking at her feet rather than her ass.”

Emanuel shook his head, sighing. “I think I told her I didn’t like her lipstick.”

“Hummm,” the waiter said, tapping his fingertips on the silver tray.

Emanuel looked up into the man’s face. But all of a sudden, the waiter exclaimed, “Oh my god!”

He was staring at Emanuel with wide, wild eyes, obvious shock on his face. “I have the right table, this is―” The waiter’s gaze shot to the drinks bar, then back to Emanuel. “Emanuel Montmorency, that’s you?”

Emanuel frowned. “Yes. Is there some problem?”

The waiter shook his head, open-mouthed. “This is gonna sound crazy, but do you have a twin that nobody knows about?”

Emanuel’s blood curdled. He didn’t know how this man knew, but he _knew_.

“N- No, I don’t... don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emanuel stuttered, eyes on the waiter’s knees.

“You do!” The waiter leaned down close, his maroon waistcoat tightening around the buttons. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Emanuel looked helplessly towards the back of the restaurant, begging Daphne to come back just to shake this nightmare awake.

“Case-teel,” the waiter said, squinting his golden eyes in Emanuel’s face. “He’s you. I recognise your voice, that lovely stutter of yours.”

“Voice?” Emanuel looked up sharply. “I - you! We spoke on the phone.”

“Gabriel,” the waiter said, standing up straight and holding out a hand to Emanuel. “Dean’s bedroom neighbour.”

Emanuel’s hand was shaking of its own accord as he took Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel let it free with a satisfied smirk.

“Please don’t tell her,” Emanuel whispered, eyes darting to the door, then to Gabriel. “Or Dean. Don’t tell either of them. Or the tabloids. _Please_.”

Gabriel nodded, solemn and honest for once, covering the foolish smile he’d been wearing. “Dean likes you. I might like to mess people around, but I don’t like to mess _that_ much.”

Emanuel lowered his eyes to watch himself hold his own hand, thumbs rubbing. “I like Dean too. A lot.” He frowned quickly, eyes lifting to meet Gabriel’s, then falling again. “An awful lot.”

“More than your date here?”

Emanuel set a hand to his head, feeling an evening fever start to boil under his skin, not helped by the panic. “It’s not like that. They don’t intersect. I don’t― I don’t use the same name. Nor the same credit card, not since last week. I’m two different men, you have to understand that. I’m not... Oh god, I’m not cheating. I’m not that, I’m not a cheater.”

“Whoa, easy bro,” Gabriel laughed, chucking Emanuel on the jaw with his fingers. “I never said that. From what Dean’s told me - and shown me - I don’t think you two ever got past, like, base zero.”

Emanuel flushed with panic again, shaking his head. Gabriel’s eyes were warm as they looked down on him, and Emanuel was eased by his name, _Gabriel_ , and he took the connection to an angel to be a sign. Trust, a sign of trust. “Dean and I, we―”

“Oh, look at that, your girl’s back,” Gabriel said quickly, sweeping his arm to guide Daphne back into her seat as she approached.

She smiled to Gabriel, and sat.

Gabriel cleared his throat, and Emanuel blinked at him, desperate. Gabriel drew a line across his lips with pinched fingers, miming a zipper. The secret could be safe...

Then he left, assuring them their dessert would be along in a moment.

“What was he talking about?” Daphne asked, fingers locked in front of her.

Emanuel never answered her question, as he looked at Daphne’s face and saw her lipstick was gone. His smile broke away a layer of worry from his surface, and he chuckled at his lap, eyes closing. As he looked back to Daphne, he saw she was smiling too.

His heart warmed at the sight.

He could love this woman.

Not cheating. No infidelity. Just... love for two. If Dean could love so many, in so many different ways, then Castiel had space to love just two.

His musings were shattered again as Gabriel approached the table, sliding their impeccably decorated caramelised flans in front of them, fresh napkins laid down for them both.

But it wasn’t the desserts that had Emanuel distracted. It was the massive fake black handlebar moustache that Gabriel wore, sporting it so naturally that it didn’t seem to be a joke to him at all.

“Bon appetit,” he said, kissing his fingertips and then leaning forward to wriggle them over the table. Sugar sprinkles fell from his hands, which surprised Daphne enough to make her yelp, but the sound became a laugh as Gabriel twirled on the spot, then slunk away.

Daphne and Emanuel made eye contact, unspoken words about Gabriel hanging in the air between them. They both laughed, trying to stifle the sounds with their hands, but once the laughter devolved into hushed sniggers, they breathed, picked up their spoons, and dug into their desserts, still smiling.

Much the same thing happened when Gabriel delivered their second bottle of wine.

Emanuel had never had a date like this, and by the end of it, he wondered if all dates to restaurants were meant to be like this; gentle, enjoyable. After taking care of the bill himself, he left the restaurant with his arm around Daphne’s back, feeling elated and light-footed, similar to the way he did when he spent time with Dean.

Emanuel - _Castiel_ \- still wasn’t sure if Dean felt the same way, whether he touched himself to thoughts of Castiel, whether he fantasised about gifting him the most trivial of things; antihistamine tablets, home-baked apple crumble, a Netflix gift card. He was unsure if Dean wanted him. He might. And he might not. And yet, being with Daphne, enjoying her company, Castiel almost felt jealous on Dean’s behalf.

He didn’t want to love them both; he only wanted to spend his life with one person. But while walking Daphne home in the star-dusted night, he realised he didn’t want to choose. Why couldn’t he have both?

He wanted a family, someone to stand with him as he grew old. He wanted to further his life in the time he had left. He wanted fun, adventure, to make love in the middle of the night on a whim. He wanted gestures of grandeur, he wanted to buy a house and make it their own. His and Daphne’s, or his and Dean’s.

But he didn’t want to choose.

Standing upon the porch of Daphne’s house, they laughed the breathy laughs of jokes that remained, Daphne tugging her wavy hair behind her ears, fumbling in her pocket for her keys. She bit her lip, humming a laugh until it died away. She swallowed.

“I had...” Emanuel started, “a good time, tonight.”

“Me too,” Daphne nodded. “I had a good time too. We ought to do this again. I’m free on Thursday, actually.”

“I’ll make reservations.”

Daphne smiled, fiddling with her keychain, making a lot of noise.

The wafting heat of the house radiated at their sides, lights from inside polluting the small part of the night that they stood in. The porch light ticked, moths orbiting it like winged moons around a bulbous sun.

Emanuel knew what to do. He _ought_ to do it.

Young Juliette waited inside, her babysitter paid to stay late. Such things, Emanuel never had himself. For him it was always just the nanny or the butler to keep him company. Not a teenager from the next block, paid to watch TV.

Emanuel wasn’t willing to be part of that. He felt like a coward for admitting it to himself, but he didn’t want a family, not a young one, still as unsure about the world as he was himself. Three degrees had given him nothing but certificates, and he still had so much living to do. He couldn’t tie himself to one family, one place.

“Daphne,” he whispered.

Daphne spun towards him, moving quickly to pull herself against him, lips―

Emanuel turned his head. Her lips pushed to his cheek, warm against his night-cold skin.

She breathed, then pulled an inch away with a soft click of saliva. Her lips were still tacky from what was left of her lipstick, and her breath was warm on his face, hands gentle as they held his defensive wrists, raised to block her before she came this close.

“Let me know,” Daphne said, softly, stroking a hand down the cheek she’d kissed. “Let me know when you’re...”

“Ready,” Emanuel completed. She nodded. But the word wasn’t right, because he didn’t think he would ever be ready for this.

It wasn’t all that complicated, he’d just been thinking it over too deeply. He loved Daphne, just not in the way that made him crave her kisses. He didn’t crave her at all, only felt comforted when she was with him.

“I did have a nice time,” he assured her, eyes on her necklace as it sparkled over her top. “I’ll call you for next time.”

Daphne tucked her hair behind her ear again, then leaned in to give him a second kiss, on the other cheek, this one friendly, no more than a peck.

She unlocked the door, finding the key so easily this time that Emanuel could only imagine she’d been stalling before. She looked back before she closed the door, her smile crooked and hopeful, her eyes bright from the hall light behind her. She really was a beautiful woman.

He smiled for her, just for her, and she closed the door.

He smiled to himself now, closing his eyes.

He hadn’t messed it all up completely.

She would wait as long as it took him to be okay with this. To be okay with chaining himself to a family that came like a faulty Ikea item, knocks and bruises on the parts, pegs missing.

The instructions were missing too. That was his problem. It was like trying to complete a puzzle with no edge pieces and no clue what the final picture was supposed to look like.

With Dean, it all came so easily that he didn’t need guidance. No pressure. No expectations. Dean only accepted what Castiel gave, and that acceptance was what Castiel needed to let himself give more.

All of these things considered, it should have been an easy choice. But his father’s expectations loomed like a gavel over him, waiting for him to make the _right_ choice. Dean was not the right choice, and not only because of his gender.

Dean was not rich. Dean was not well-educated, at least as far as Castiel could tell. His surprise at hearing Castiel had more than one degree adhered to this theory. The fact said nothing against his intelligence, but Castiel would have placed a million-dollar bet to say his father would not be pleased to hear about Dean’s penchant and skill for hacking satellite television.

Dean had no children; nothing to offer Castiel but himself. He couldn’t breed with him, either.

No business, no investment. In Castiel’s father’s eyes, that meant no future.

Castiel passed Cupid’s Bow as he walked home. The shop was empty, cavernous shadows making the place like a void for the night.

Lights were on upstairs, and Castiel knew Dean was home. He wanted so dearly to go up and say hello.

He stood in the slanted street, staring.

He should do the things he wanted. Having enjoyed so many new television shows, he knew what it felt like to let his will crumble. After kissing Dean, just once, he knew what it was like. Dean was the leaking dam, like Missouri had said. One leak, and the whole dam burst forth a torrent of wants.

Castiel wanted.

And he turned away, not letting himself take.

The shine of the main road covered his trenchcoat with the passing firefly glows of vehicles, each car with a passenger, each passenger with direction and purpose.

He didn’t have that. His life was buying, selling, maintaining, building. Almost mindlessly. The only plan he followed was his father’s.

There wasn’t enough giving in his life. Sharing. Offering.

He put his hands in his pockets, and felt stitches under his thumb. The stitches were there to fix what was broken. Too many shells, too much pain, old memories he was still holding on to.

He stopped walking, standing on the sidewalk, watching the car tail lights blurring in the back of his mind.

He had so much power in this city, and he’d never used it. He couldn’t do much about the monkeys, nor about what he felt for Dean, but he could bulldoze the wall that blocked the path of his own life.

He had Benny’s number in his phone. He knew what to do.

✿

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel grinned as he caught Dean’s eye over the counter, watching him tuck his book away quickly in order to devote his attention. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean licked his lips, then stood up, leaning his weight on his hands over the desk. “So, you and Daphne...”

Castiel wandered to the nearest bucket of flowers, spying a new little paper card pinned to the front which read ‘Chrysanthemums’. The flowers’ colours ranged from pink to yellow, bright, grouped in little bunches. He waited there for Dean to speak.

Dean cleared his throat, and finished his question. “Did you kiss?”

With a glance to Dean, Castiel replied, “Yes.”

Dean didn’t need to know that it was only a kiss on the cheek. Nor that Castiel had done nothing but wish the last evening had been spent with Dean instead.

Dean licked his lips again, rubbing the back of his neck as he moved to stand beside Castiel, unnecessarily close to him. His warmth was comforting to have so near. Dean smiled, nudging Castiel in the side. “Awesome.”

“Are you really so impressed that I didn’t fail to woo a woman?”

Dean sniggered, lifting a lily and sniffing it, then holding it to Castiel’s face so he could do the same. “Knowing what you’re usually like, yeah.”

Castiel sighed as the lily was slipped back into its bucket, Dean adjusting the paper card underneath it. “I still wonder if I’d be able to survive a marriage.”

Dean cocked his head, eyes on the flowers as he primped them. “Well, you know what I think,” he said, lightly but blandly.

Castiel smiled, eyes on Dean’s stubbled jawline, wondering if he could get away with kissing him there. “I do know,” he said, turning his eyes away to remove the bait from his sight. “You’ve said several times you’re not happy with the arrangement.”

“Mm-hm!”

Castiel smiled at the scattered petals that dotted the tiles, and raised a very important question: “But if you’re so against it, Dean, why are you so eager to help me? Why guide me through my dates, why sell me flowers for me to give to her?”

Dean purred under his breath, and Castiel helplessly turned his eye back to him, looking for the tiny smile he knew rested on Dean’s lips. He saw it, and felt warm - and even warmer when Dean turned his face to look at him, soft eyes and a careless smile, perhaps flirtatious.

“How else would I get you to kiss me?”

Castiel frowned as Dean turned away, the impish smirk on his face making Castiel unsure if Dean was joking. “Do you mean that?”

Dean shrugged, spinning on his heel and leaning back on the front desk, hands behind him to lift him up to sit. He sat facing Castiel, swinging his legs. That smirk hadn’t left his face, and Castiel put his hands into his coat pockets, questioning everything in silence.

“Hey,” Dean said, eyes bright with a new topic of conversation, “Did you ever finish watching _Little Shop of Horrors_?”

Castiel shook his head, unhappy to leave the other conversation unfinished, but forging ahead anyway.

“We should watch it to the end sometime,” Dean offered, stilling his boots so the heels rested on the side of the desk. “You and me. And not over the phone; side by side.”

Castiel inclined his head. “I’d like that.”

Dean nodded as if it was decided, and he slipped off the desk, landing on the tiles with a thump. He hummed as he swayed around to the other side of the desk, and whistled a few notes as he spun his scissors on his fingers, showing off.

It seemed the conversation was again ended, and Castiel didn’t know how to restart it.

“Um,” he said, and then lost all his words.

Dean was still whistling. He seemed bouncy, fast-moving - Castiel wondered if he’d been sleeping better for once, but a few seconds of observation let him see the dark circles under Dean’s eyes were still there, shadowed even more by the frames of his glasses. His shoulders were looser, though, and there was a glow in his face that Castiel recognised.

That glow was what he saw shining in his own face, ever since he’d met Dean. It had gotten brighter and brighter every day, and after he and Dean had kissed on Saturday, he’d gone home and seen a new man in the mirror.

The glow had shown in the photo he’d taken for Dean, that was why Castiel liked that photo so much.

Maybe that glow was what Daphne saw in him when he’d asked.

Castiel stood there watching Dean tidying his workspace needlessly, glasses sliding down his nose. What made him look so happy?

He didn’t want to leap to such a self-centred conclusion, but it might be _him_.

The two of them weren’t sharing conversation right now, but Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s every few moments, and his smile grew every time, his cheeks coloured, his breath hitched. His whistles lost their tune, his lip paled with marks each time Dean bit down on it.

Dean was _enjoying_ Castiel’s company. Just him. It was _him_.

And upon realising that, all Castiel wanted was to make the glow brighter. If his presence was making Dean happy, he wanted more. He wanted to see Dean all the time, be here all the time.

Before, he’d been so worried about overstepping his boundaries, being in the shop more than Dean wanted him here. But Dean had said he missed Castiel when he wasn’t around, and Castiel knew _he_ missed Dean. Castiel had all the time in the world, most days, and Dean was here all the time. There didn’t seem to be a reason to stay away any more.

“Dean, I’d like to buy some flowers,” Castiel said. It seemed so obvious, now he thought about it. He could have done this from the start.

“What kind?”

“Make me something special,” Castiel told him, stepping forward so he was just a pace away from Dean while he tied his apron. “Something just for me.”

Dean chuckled, circling around Castiel, leaving the scent of his aftershave behind him like haze after a storm, which Castiel breathed in deeply, making only the smallest attempt to hide.

“‘Special’ is gonna cost you, though,” Dean warned, his gaze somewhat sultry as he passed by again, for no apparent reason than to trail his fingers down the side of Castiel’s hand. “How special are we talking?”

“Something for my living room,” Castiel said, tilting his head as Dean’s lashes swept downwards, his gaze lingering on where Castiel’s trenchcoat was open, displaying his front. “Something I’ll see a hundred times a day. Something I’d walk the other way through my corridors just so I can pass by to see.”

Dean licked his lips slowly, his eyes slinking from Castiel’s mouth to the flowers behind him, a low hum rumbling over his tongue. He pursed his lips and bobbed his head in a minute nod, his mind captured by thoughts of a new creation.

Castiel saw it as a dance. Dean moved to music, his own humming filling the tiny shop with its sound. It was arrhythmic, and it paused often as Dean got distracted grouping flowers, but it went on, and his feet swayed across the tiles. He would spin around for no reason, the hum pushed into a whistle, and then a smile would crack it into nothing but a laugh as he caught Castiel’s eye.

Castiel watched Dean’s slender fingers define a coloured shape, put a blossom in place, fill spaces with more of the Earth’s given beauty... Ah, it was some kind of Heaven.

Dean was so utterly, utterly beautiful.

Castiel was in awe at himself, awed at how much he could _feel_. He’d never felt like his heart was beating so determinedly, like it was now. He felt like the reason it kept beating was so he could watch Dean glow, spinning, tossing flowers over his hands like he did with the scissors.

Dean was dancing for _him_.

“And, that’ll be two hundred bucks, round about,” Dean said, with a deft grin. “Cash or credit?”

Castiel simpered at Dean over the counter as he pulled out his wallet.

Dean leaned his elbow on the desk, peering up at Castiel through his eyelashes. He took his credit card, offering a warm smile. “Believe me, Cas, if I could give you flowers for free,” he said, grinning breathily, not quite completing the facial expression, “I would.”

“It would get you fired,” Castiel mused, raising his eyebrows.

Dean chuckled, handing over the PIN machine while pushing his glasses further up his nose. “There are better ways to get fired. More fun.”

Castiel didn’t doubt it; he’d fantasised a few of those ways himself.

He handed the machine back, and Dean handed back his card, which Castiel tucked into his wallet. Emanuel’s card sat alongside it, and in a moment of chilled relief, Castiel wondered what might have happened if Dean had ever seen the name on the older card. The new one had no name printed on it, unlike the first.

Guilt sat cold in his stomach. He was beginning to travel a road he knew led in a bad direction. He was becoming a liar, to an extent which he never was before. He needed to end this before he sank any deeper.

“Cas?”

Castiel almost gasped, looking up into Dean’s face. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

“I’ll say. You look like someone just died.”

Castiel shook his head, pulling the exquisite bouquet of golds and purples towards him. It sat in a decorated box, and he was glad he wouldn’t have to destroy the arrangement in order to put it into a vase. “No, nobody died. I was just... musing, over...”

“Over...?”

Castiel sucked his lower lip, then met Dean’s eye as he let it free. “Something bad I did. A mistake.”

“Oh?”

“I wish I’d never done it. I don’t know why I did it, but I... wish I could take it back. It could ruin everything.”

Dean’s little smile was gone, his face almost blanched. “I’m... Wow, okay.” He looked at the table. “Sorry you feel that way.”

Dean swallowed, staring at the desk now, lips pressed together. His eyes drew even further from Castiel, looking to his lap. “Just... so you know, no matter what you thought of it, I don’t regret it. It was fucking amazing, and... Shit. _God_ , I thought you liked it.” Dean put a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as he looked off to the side of the shop.

Castiel was startled to see tears in Dean’s eyes.

“Dean... what on Earth are you talking about?”

Dean’s eyes shot to meet Castiel’s, blinking a few times to clear the shine away. His lower lip moved up and down, and finally he answered, with a frown on his face, “The kiss. When you and me...?”

Castiel grimaced, and he groaned quietly, shaking his head. “Not that. Oh, Dean, no - I didn’t mean that.”

Dean exhaled through his open mouth, hands shaking as he quickly ran them under his glasses, a soft sound coming from his throat. “Oh god. Sorry - sorry, Cas. _Fuck_ , I thought I was gonna cry for a minute there, Jesus.” He laughed nervously, shaking his head before his gaze flicked up to meet with Castiel.

Castiel smiled softly, heart almost bursting from the pure emotion he saw in Dean. He seemed to be shivering a little, throat pulling up to gulp.

“I enjoyed what we shared,” Castiel said with a nod, just to clarify. “Very much.”

Dean nodded too, small little tips of his chin. He smiled - clearly very, very relieved.

“I was talking about something else, something I said to you a long time ago,” Castiel went on, almost closing his eyes.

“What did you say?”

Castiel shook his head, humming a negative sound. “I’m afraid I’m not quite brave enough to say right now.”

Dean laughed, curling his hand under his chin. “Whenever you feel brave, you come see me.”

“May I call you?”

“Fuck yes,” Dean breathed, whole body sagging. Castiel peered at him curiously, only to see Dean’s lip quiver again, a sideways grin rising. “Shut up, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”

“And why is that?”

Dean laughed to himself as he pulled out a pen, taking one of the fancy cards from beside the till to write on it. “I’m afraid,” he said, slowly, his mind on what he wrote, “I’m not... quite... brave enough to say right now.” He finished writing, and slid the card over the desk, making it hiss against the wood. “Call me anytime, day or night. It’s not like I sleep, or anything.”

“You really ought to move out,” Castiel suggested, taking the card to admire Dean’s block-letter handwriting, the firm way he wrote his own name. He styled both his his zeros and sevens with a line through them, and after his number, he’d pushed down a final period; decisive.

Dean made a dismissive noise. “I’m not going anywhere. Sammy needs me at home; he’s working hard, and Sarah has a full-time job. I’m the only one who can round everyone up to eat together twice a week. Otherwise we’re all ships in the night, and that can get pretty lonely.”

“They’d survive without you.”

“That’s not the point. I want to help them out, you know?”

“I do know. But that...” Castiel took a breath, letting his sentence die. “What you need is someone to take care of _you_. I mean you no offence, but despite how handsome you are, you do look exhausted.”

Dean’s laugh bubbled up, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, your eyes look bruised, your face seems thinner than last week, your hair’s not even combed―”

“Cas! It’s a _figure of speech_.”

Castiel shut his mouth.

Dean rolled his eyes, standing up to untie his apron. “But to tell you the truth, I do feel better. Despite the itchy skin and the sleepless nights.”

Castiel wondered if Dean knew for certain why that was.

The slow look Dean gave him, then... That let Castiel know that Dean _did_ know.

Castiel gave him a smile, and Dean smiled back, then lowered his gaze, still smiling.

Whatever this was, this endless falling, it was mutual.

That was probably the best moment of Castiel’s whole life. On his deathbed he’d look back at his time on Earth, and right _then_ was the moment that defined everything he’d lived for.

Castiel didn’t want to choose between Daphne and Dean. But it had become apparent that he already had.

“I will come back tomorrow,” Castiel said, pulling the box of flowers into his arms. “And the day after. And every day.”

“Good,” Dean said. “I’ll be rich by the end of the week.”

Castiel laughed, hugging the box. He tipped his head towards the door, and Dean took the hint and went around the desk to let him out.

“Guess you got places to be, being a snooty bastard and all,” Dean said as he passed by. “You never stay long enough.”

“I don’t want to exceed my welcome.”

Dean smiled at the open door, letting the sun pour inside. “You’re always welcome here. I promise.”

Castiel paused, right beside the open door. “Thank you,” he said.

Dean hesitated on his feet, and Castiel almost frowned, wondering what Dean was about to say.

But Dean wasn’t about to say anything. He leaned in close, and put a soft, tiny kiss on Castiel’s jaw. Exactly in the place Castiel had been thinking of kissing Dean.

Dean pulled back, lower lip springing out from between his teeth, having bitten it out of uncertainty. Castiel’s lovestruck smile seemed to ease his worry, and Dean breathed out, blinking.

“Have a great day, Cas,” he said, ever so quietly.

“You too.”

The sun welcomed him, the cloudless sky reflecting the way Castiel’s whole being felt, all that afternoon. He was hopelessly, _hopelessly_ in love.

He returned the next day. He stayed an hour, maybe two - he lost track of time.

Dean made him laugh so easily now; he touched his skin and made his whole body roar with flame, just with the brush of fingertips.

They talked about the shows Castiel had found to watch, and then about the ones Dean liked to watch. Some intersected, and Castiel was significantly enthused when Dean promised to burn him discs of every season of _The X-Files_. (Castiel checked: apparently ‘burn’ was a technical term, and Dean wasn’t about to set fire to anything.)

Castiel cared very little about the questionable legality of Dean’s gift, and that fact alone prompted Dean to offer a potted pansy, on the house. Castiel deemed the plant a sibling for his first, and Dean laughed so delightfully that Castiel’s chest felt tight and tingly in an instant.

He took home a second box of flowers. He went out again after depositing the box at home; he went to Home Depot and bought twenty vases, all of different shapes and sizes. Every bare surface in his house was going to be covered in flowers, and every vase would signify a day he’d shared with Dean.

On Wednesday, Dean burdened him with a bouquet so exuberant that Castiel had to call a taxi to take him home, unable to carry it himself. Dean laughed at the sight of Castiel teetering under the plant fronds, the blooms gigantic and frighteningly colourful. Like the sky had on Monday, this bouquet reflected Castiel’s whole being. This was how Dean made him feel. Glorious. Like an explosion of beauty inside, blessed with life.

It went on for another week. In that time Castiel’s house became a jungle; colour shone from every corner, leaves draped over every couch arm. Ivy climbed the black tiles in his bathroom - which admittedly did not come from Cupid’s Bow, but a nearby garden centre had been highly recommended by Dean, and Castiel hadn’t been able to resist. He was having real trouble holding back now; everything he wanted, he let himself take.

Alas, that newfound freedom did not always continue when he was with Dean. Every time Castiel felt the urge to touch, to lean over and kiss, to hold his hand - he did not. Dean never lingered close enough to kiss Castiel, nor did he ever offer a time to ‘practise’ a date with Daphne.

Even so, that week went down as Castiel’s best week, the freest part of life he’d ever known. Each day was rich with interaction; he talked with Charlie until Dean dragged himself off the couch at midday, he shared smalltalk with Sam when Dean left his post to use the bathroom. Castiel’s business meetings passed like he was pouring molasses, he was so eager to get to the shop instead. It seemed like the whole _point_ of each day was so he could see Dean.

His dates with Daphne felt much the same as work meetings. Bland, slow. He gave her roses, he walked her home, he took her to places she said she enjoyed being taken. But it was devoid of the joy he found in Dean’s company.

Daphne kept asking about Dean, every time Castiel said his name. Castiel tried to avoid mentioning him to her, but sometimes he felt like there was nothing else in the world that held any interest for him. Nothing had ever made him _want_ like Dean did.

When Castiel talked to his father, he never once spoke Dean’s name. Always business, always Daphne, always a future that Castiel now knew would never come to pass. Dean was Castiel’s kept secret.

A few times a week, Emanuel showed Daphne a smile that wasn’t meant for her.

And every day, Castiel fell more in love with Dean.


	8. Mind, Body, and Soul

Dean’s day had been going pretty badly so far; it was barely 6 a.m, and he was technically still living yesterday, having not gotten a wink of sleep. And then Sarah wandered in wearing her pyjamas, yawning.

“Morning.”

Sarah grunted and sat on a barstool, waiting for Dean to serve her breakfast. “Thank you for not calling it ‘good’.”

“It’s not that great, I agree. Devil cat shredded one of my pairs of lace panti―...” he cleared his throat, “things. But what’s got _you_ down?”

Sarah looked up, blinking slowly at him as he nudged chopped onions around the base of the frying pan. “You know my friend, Ruby?” she started.

“The one who dumped her cat on us?”

“I volunteered,” Sarah corrected.

“Well?”

“Well, those two weeks are definitely a _Money Trap_ kind of two weeks.”

Dean growled at the ceiling, head rolling back. “Aw, man, I knew it. How long are we stuck with the bastard now?”

“Indefinitely,” Sarah said. “We’re going to be sharing litter box duty, preferably on a rota, because I sure as heck am not doing it for the rest of my life. I have a real job.”

Dean sighed. They’d had Lucifer for twenty days now, and if counting the days was of any use at all, Lucifer-time numbered one day less than the days Dean had known Castiel.

“So,” he said, shoving the completed omelette onto a plate for Sarah, “what’s Ruby’s excuse this time?”

“She’s dead.”

Dean coughed. He stared at Sarah until she began eating. “Oh,” he said.

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted, then fell. She seemed more tired than upset.

“Sorry for your loss,” Dean offered, more practised with that line than should be normal for a human being.

Sarah nodded, then went back to her food. “It was Benny who let me know.”

Dean looked her, perplexed.

Sarah sighed. “Ruby. She was in WitSec too. And she never told me. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”

Dean gave a sad, sad smile, head drooping. He didn’t feel like eating his own omelette any more, but he did anyway. “How did it happen?”

“Who knows? Benny might, but I doubt he’ll share. If I took a guess, she started dealing again, and it went bad.”

“Some people never learn, do they,” Dean intoned, making it clear to Sarah that the words were referring to himself, as well. “WitSec can’t hold everyone as well as it’s held us, though.” He gripped Sarah’s wrist, trying to reassure her.

“Wet what?” came Gabriel’s sleepy voice.

Dean straightened up, seeing the other man waddling into the room, rubbing his tired eyes. The sun was just coming up, and with Gabriel’s arrival there came a chilly draft, the air shifting as the temperature changed.

“Nothing,” Dean said, as Gabriel sat down next to Sarah.

“Wet Zic?”

Sarah set her fork down on her empty plate, prongs up. “WitSec. Witness Security. It’s a... It’s a system the government has, where criminals... get a new life with a new legal name, so long as they testify in court to bring down other - worse, criminals.” She pressed a sad smile between her lips, then finished, “Sam, Dean and I are in the program.”

Gabriel sniffled, and then his eyes opened really, really wide. “Oh my god. That - explains - _everything_.”

Dean snorted at him, turning away to make another omelette. “Yeah, well don’t go telling everyone. Between us, this one’s pretty much a matter of life and death.”

Gabriel cooed, leaning on his elbow in interest. “So what bad things did you do? Oh! Whose trials did you guys speak at? Murderers? Spies? Ooh, was it―”

“Gabriel, not now,” Dean snapped, thumping the pan on the stove. “Ruby’s dead. She was a WitSeckie like us.”

“Is that the chick who dumped us with―”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Dean’s morning thankfully didn’t get any worse, but really, that wasn’t saying much.

✿

On most days, Dean would be packing up shop around seven o’clock in the evening, watering down the plants, bringing in the pots that sat on the brick lane outside. Instead, he sat with his boots hooked over the rung of his stool, anchoring himself down.

He could feel the gloom of the sunset covering over the city, the sun long gone from the window. The shadow of the painted glass made letters read backwards over his shoulders, the name of the shop only comprehensible from outside.

His eyes were on his book, but he hadn’t been reading for some time now.

Castiel hadn’t come in today.

It was empty without him. Even the constant flow of customers Dean had had today didn’t lift his mood, their cheeriness and friendly greetings putting nothing but a forced smile on his face.

Castiel was...

He brought life to Dean. He gave so much that, when absent, he left Dean feeling like part of him was gone too. He’d gotten to enjoy Castiel’s presence so much these past few weeks that just one day without him now felt like an eternity.

He understood what Castiel meant now, about clocks.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He stayed still, breathing softly, trying not to think about anything at all. He could have fallen asleep, but his consciousness never seemed to lower any further than the sun. Even when, finally, the lilac and pale brown dipped away to leave dark golden and purples, he was aware of himself; aware of his thumb squashed between the pages of his unfinished book, his ankles aching from being stuck in the stool rung for so long, his eyelid twitching from fatigue, the painful dents under his eyes from the weight of his glasses.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Then the door opened, and Dean opened his eyes, unsure if he would tell this customer that the shop was closed, or if he’d serve them, feeling like it would be the last dance before summer ended.

Dean looked up, and the clock silenced.

“Cas.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, running his hand down his front, smoothing his tie. “I’m glad you’re here, I thought I wouldn’t catch you.”

“Well, if I wasn’t here, I’d be upstairs,” Dean reasoned, and Castiel nodded, but shyly. Dean still got the impression he didn’t like leaving the safety of the shop - much the same as Dean himself, sometimes.

Castiel glanced around, his eyes skipping between the gradient of each of the walls, from shadow to wobbly shadow, then back to Dean. “Why are you reading in the dark?”

Dean blinked, wriggling his thumb out from between the book pages, feeling it throb. “I’m not. I was just, kind of, staring into space.”

Castiel gave him a concerned look, and Dean shrugged. “The cat bit me, I have cat powers now,” he said with a playful grin. “See in the dark, sense death, that kind of thing.”

Castiel’s frown only grew more troubled. He rested his forearms on the desk, craning over the surface to look at Dean carefully in each eye, like a doctor might. “I don’t think it works like that.”

Dean flicked a breathless grin, warmed by Castiel’s closeness, his attention. Dean swiped his lower lip with his tongue, and stood up. “I’ve got some candles, I can put some of those up.”

Castiel rustled behind Dean as Dean moved to collect the tealight jars. As Dean started lining them up on the desktop, he saw Castiel’s trenchcoat, suit jacket, and his tie had been lain across the desk, the colours layered tan, black, and then a stripe of blue, all drenched in the evening shade.

“Make yourself at home,” Dean said, half-sarcastic. He grinned as Castiel thanked him politely, and then rolled his sleeves up.

“I bought you a cookie,” Castiel said, out of the blue, as Dean stuck a lit spaghetti end into the first candle, watching it flare.

“Let me guess, you eated it?”

“No, it’s right here.”

Dean laughed, catching Castiel’s eye. Then he laughed again, taking a guess to say Castiel wasn’t as well-versed in cat-related internet macros as, say, Charlie.

Castiel took out a paper bag from his trenchcoat pocket, waiting until Dean put the lit spaghetti down before he handed it to him.

Dean hummed, already feeling oven-fresh warmth through the paper. “This is fresh? Damn, you know how to spoil a guy.”

Without a thought, Dean broke off half the cookie, offering it to Castiel. Castiel’s hand hesitated before taking it, but he did, and Dean made an incredibly pleased noise as together they bit into the softest, gooiest melted chocolate chips ever.

“Mm, tha’sh good,” Dean nodded, rolling his head back against his shoulders. He opened his eyes to smile at a hanging glass jar above him, its radiant light like a trapped firefly.

“You talk with your mouth full a great deal.”

Dean looked at Castiel, who was nibbling his cookie half with both hands holding it. “Nobody ever told me I shouldn’t,” Dean said, with a small smile. He turned away, cramming the last bite of cookie into his cheek, savouring it as he returned to lighting jars.

“If I told you now that you ought not do it, because it’s rude, would you continue?”

Dean immediately started chewing with his mouth open, turning his head so Castiel could see. He closed his mouth and grinned as he saw Castiel’s grimace, but the smile that followed the grimace was the reason Dean kept grinning as he passed Castiel a jar.

They hung the jars from the beams across the ceiling, each one bringing an aura to the room that Dean knew full well was reminiscent of a date. With Benny, it never mattered, even though Benny would complain. But with Castiel, it seemed apt.

“What is that you’re humming?” Castiel asked, after a while.

Dean looked up, then frowned, trying to remember what notes had been lifting from his throat without him noticing. “Uhhh. _Hmm-hmm-hm-hm-hm-hmmmmm..._ Oh - oh! R.E.M.’s _Losing My Religion_. Heard it on the radio today,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the front desk, where a small FM radio sat, its antenna bent out to the side to catch the fritzy signal. “I end up singing along even when I’m not paying attention.”

“You keep rhythm well,” Castiel said, inclining his head.

“You’ve never heard the song. You don’t know what it’s meant to sound like.”

Castiel shut his mouth. Then opened it to say, “If you say so.”

Dean chuckled, turning away, removing both his apron and his flannel shirt. It wasn’t hot - in fact, with the air conditioner set so levelly, the room was bordering on chilly - but Castiel had stripped down, and Dean felt a little overdressed.

“So,” Dean said, throwing the burned-out stubby remains of the spaghetti into the lowermost drawer of the desk, “what took you so long today?”

Castiel took a breath. “Well,” he said, “I was seeing Benny.”

Dean looked up sharply, and Castiel amended, “I _saw_ Benny. I met with him.”

“Like, for coffee, or―”

“It was a work date,” Castiel explained, walking around Dean to pull out a stool. He sat, and Dean sat beside him, but then Castiel stood up again, hands on the desk.

“What, what’s up?” Dean asked, perplexed at Castiel’s sudden agitation.

Castiel shook his head. “Oh, nothing. No, it’s nothing about Benny; he and I get along well.”

He seemed to zone out, eyes glimmering in the shifting lights of the candles hung amongst the flowers, casting gentle shadows around the shape of his face. “It’s nothing,” he said again. “You probably don’t want to know.”

Dean tugged on Castiel’s shirt, hearing the material move a little, becoming partially untucked from his jeans. Castiel looked at Dean, then sat down, never breaking eye contact.

“I have a date with Daphne,” Castiel said by way of explanation, hands clasped on his knees as he swivelled to face Dean. His knuckles grazed Dean’s thigh. “Tonight.”

“Okay, great.” Dean shrugged. They’d done this five, six times before. But Castiel’s trepidation - at least like this - seemed pretty new.

Castiel flattened his lips and looked down. “I’m taking her where you told me to take her. I made reservations almost immediately after you said, I’m just... I - I didn’t know you then, I didn’t think it would be so important once we knew each other―”

“Christ, put a subject header on your emails, Cas. What the hell are you talking about?”

Castiel only met his eye for a moment, before he sighed and tilted his chin towards the candles, bathed in their golden blush. “I’m taking her to the Conservatory of Flowers. To the night-time butterfly exhibit. I know you said... that you would have enjoyed a date there, so I’m sorry that―” He shook his head. “If it was your ideal date, I apologise for stealing it.”

Dean managed a tiny smile, poking his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “It’s cool,” he said, softly. “I’m not dating, so it’s not like I have a blanket call on everything that goes on at the Conservatory. C’mon, I’ve been there a grand total of once.”

“That’s exactly it. You would have liked to go there.”

“I can still go there.”

Castiel’s smile was no more a smile than Pluto was a planet. “If I ever took you there, it would seem like an imitation, is what I’m trying to say.”

Dean blanked for a few seconds. His hands curled on the table, and he rubbed his thumbs and forefingers together, out of a need to do something with himself that didn’t include having an emotional fit. “You’d take me on a date?”

Castiel wouldn’t - or couldn’t - meet his eye. He gave a half-hearted shrug, blinking a few times. “I would have liked to share some... butterflies, with you.”

Dean rubbed a fingertip across his lips, feeling the crackles in the skin caused by that damn cat. He wanted Castiel to feel those imperfections too, if only because doing so would mean Dean could kiss him.

Dean still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Old tricks, hidden away for later use, but tricks nonetheless.

“This date,” Dean said, running gentle fingernails down the back of Castiel’s forearm, delighting in the shudder Castiel suffered, “Do you know how you’re gonna do it?”

“Do what?”

“You take her to the Conservatory, then what?”

“Then I walk her home.”

Dean stood up, dragging his fingers through Castiel’s hair as he went. Oh, it was so fine, and it slipped through the webs of his fingers just like in his fantasies. It took him until now to play it out, casually, like he was fixing Castiel’s hair. Castiel turned his head and followed Dean’s hand as he pulled away, and Dean imagined the other man on an invisible leash, pulled in the wake of his twisting hand, rope around his wrist.

“This is your sixth date, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Dean spun around as they reached the middle of the shop, and he rested his hand flat on Castiel’s chest to stop him. He felt his heartbeat, _ba-boom_ , and the shock of such a sudden unexpected connection made him withdraw his hand, barely keeping his gasp silent. He licked his lips again, and nodded.

“Most people,” he said, “when they date, they usually try out stuff. You gotta know you’re compatible in all areas. Mind, body, and soul - that kind of thing.”

Castiel nodded slowly, eyes on Dean as he processed his words. “Daphne and I, we’ve talked a lot. Intellectually, she and I are evenly matched.”

Dean swallowed, briefly wishing his own life experience counted for something in Castiel’s world.

Castiel’s eyes turned to the roses, candlelight outlining his silhouette, and he went on, “In regards to her soul... _Our_ souls...”

Castiel smiled softly, lowering his chin so it touched his sternum, the loose collar of his shirt catching on his permanent stubble. “She’s Buddhist―”

“Yeah, you said.”

“―and I don’t know what I am. I believe in things, but nothing consistent.”

Dean swayed on his feet, sticking his hands into his jean pockets. The two of them were just _standing_ there.

“What do you believe?” Dean prompted, voice low.

Castiel sighed, a calculating pause. “In angels. Maybe God, I don’t know.”

“Angels?” Dean’s lips tilted upward. “What, like, fluffy wings, halos?”

“Angels are warriors, Dean,” Castiel said, firmly. “Protectors, guides.”

Dean sniffed, allowing an uncertain and wobbly nod. “Okay.”

“What about you?”

Dean blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes. Daphne and I both have our beliefs, and perhaps they could intersect, but what about you?”

Dean pushed his shoulders to his ears, offering a sideways grin. “I don’t fucking know, man, I never bothered with that crap before.”

Castiel squinted at him.

Dean laughed, dropping his head to his chest, shaking it. “Don’t ask me the hard questions, I’m good at breaking the law and making flowers look nice, I’m not a preacher.”

“Crime and religion are not incompatible.”

Dean considered that Castiel was trying to encourage him to think about his faith, and he could appreciate that, at least. It wasn’t an order, not even a request. Just a suggestion: think for himself.

Dean gave one smile, then shook his head. “Whatever. Anyway, Daphne. You. Mind-body-soul. Say you got the mind and soul thing down...”

And now for his next trick...

“ _Body_ ,” he said, biting his lip and swaying his body forward at the hip suggestively. “Six dates. You see where this is going?”

Castiel looked up with a shine in his wide eyes, mouth slack, breathing halted. Obvious fear, which Dean was surprised to see in his friend, especially over this.

“Dean, I said... I said I wouldn’t want that with Daphne.”

“But you’ve talked about it, right?”

Castiel shook his head, fast like a stubborn child. “I would never allow conversation to turn so...”

The word ‘vulgar’ hung in the air like it had a candle jar of its own.

“Cas,” Dean laughed quietly. “It’s not a dirty thing. Maybe you don’t talk about it over sushi, but you’re two grown adults, you can friggin’ talk about where your bits go.”

Castiel shut his mouth, swallowing twice in quick succession.

Dean let out a soft sigh, gearing himself up to give the kind of talk apparently Castiel had never had. “Follow my lead, all right? We’ll do this the method way.”

“You mean―”

“I mean I’ll guide you up to where you decide. I’ll show you where she’ll ask, and believe me, after tonight, she will ask.”

Castiel allowed Dean to cup his elbow with a hand, but kept frowning. “How can you be so sure she’ll ask?”

“You ever been to the Conservatory?” Dean pulled the two of them to face the front of the shop, sweeping a hand to adjust his glasses quickly. “At night, all lit up, that place is a romancer’s wet dream, I tell you.”

“Wet... dr-...”

Dean laughed lowly, loving how he felt Castiel’s whole-body sway at his words. Dean couldn’t lie: he enjoyed saying those words, too.

Taking a breath, Dean led Castiel towards the front desk, pacing slowly. He tried so hard to push away the image of himself walking down the aisle of a church, but it remained in his mind: they moved like two brides side-by-side. Dean’s hand slowly - ever so slowly - slid from Castiel’s elbow and down his inner forearm. His fingers drifted down Castiel’s palm, skin rasping dry.

As their fingers pulled together, latching like keys in a lock, Dean felt a surge of power, from the tips of his fingers to the hair on the back of his neck, curling his toes in his boots.

They stood in the gap between the edge of the desk and the wall, no ivy arch this time, just the two of them under the starlight of floating candles.

“So you’ve walked her home,” Dean said, head turned so he only just saw Castiel’s face, keeping his eyes on his lips. Inches away, mere inches.

“I walked her home, and we stand on the porch,” Castiel breathed, eyelashes fluttering. “Daphne and myself.”

“Let’s say for this exercise, I’m just Dean,” Dean said, nodding a few times. He resisted the urge to nuzzle under Castiel’s chin, kiss his throat. Patience was a virtue here; he didn’t have long to wait, and he knew it.

Dean was sure that he and Castiel both understood what was happening here, and while they happily hid under pretence, there was no secret between them. This had nothing to do with Daphne, it was just Dean and Castiel, living out a fantasy.

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes. “We’ve, uh, seen each other a lot, Cas,” he said, breathing in the waves of heat that seemed to soar off Castiel’s body, which mingled with Dean’s own glowing rush. “We had a really romantic evening, and you made my day a whole lot better just by showing up. Gave me some butterflies, et cetera.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Dean laughed a little, leaning into that warmth, soaking it up. His glasses steamed up with Castiel’s exhales. Castiel smelled like flowers, like he’d been rolling in whatever Dean sold him yesterday.

“While we’re on this porch,” Dean breathed, turning his face so his glasses bent upward, and he let his eyelashes flick over Castiel’s cheek, just the once. Castiel exhaled, soft as a tealight flame. He’d felt it, and he liked it. “I should tell you...” Dean frowned, cleared his throat. “Uh, Daphne - her daughter’s out of town, so, like, the house is empty.”

“Oh?”

Dean slowly rubbed his thumb against Castiel’s inner wrist. “Yeah. Yeah, if she says something like that, it’s the invitation. If she asks if you wanna come in, that means she wants it. Make coffee or something.”

Castiel hummed a flat note. “What if I don’t want to make coffee with her?”

“Exactly, Cas,” Dean nodded, unsubtly running the tip of his nose against Castiel’s jawline, insides buzzing with the sensation. He moved away a few inches, giving himself time to settle in case he went too far, too soon. “If you don’t want to make coffee, you tell her thanks but no thanks, and you had a great time, and you say goodnight.”

“And I leave.”

“Yep.”

“And,” Castiel pulled in a breath so deep that his middle pushed into Dean’s, rocking him backward an inch, “If I were to say yes, I would like to make coffee...”

Dean’s stomach tensed; Castiel did not want to do _the do_ with Daphne, he was clear on that. But, if he were to agree to - heh - _make coffee_ with Dean... here... right now...

“We should practise,” Dean said, matter-of-factly. “Go over how you’d get in the door, and take me to the bedroom―”

Castiel’s exhale came shaky, hard - hot over Dean’s cheek. Hell, he was turned on, same as Dean. Dean could even feel him vibrating a little, holding back, just waiting to pounce.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “In case... In case Daphne asks me inside. Go through it once, as a test, just in case.”

Dean nodded, fire under his skin. “Gotta unlock the door.”

Castiel let go of his hand - _flung_ his hand, rather - eager to let Dean open the invisible door. Dean smiled, eyes watery under the steam of his own face, too hot, like a fever all over. He made the sound of an unlocking door with his mouth, then pushed open the door with his fingertips.

“Ladies first,” he said, chuckling as he went ahead of Castiel, waiting for him to join him behind the desk. Castiel caught his eye as he slunk past. Dark eyes, hungry. Waterfalls of lust fell through Dean, white water bubbling, boiling under his clothes.

Dean gasped, remembering himself. “Wait, wait, one second,” he flustered, hurriedly leaving Castiel behind. He didn’t miss the desperate grab Castiel made for Dean’s hip, but Dean moved past, going for the door.

Firmly, he flipped the ‘Open’ sign, so to anyone outside, the sign read ‘Closed’.

With a huff of relief, he rushed back to Castiel’s side, fixing the slope of his glasses frames from where they’d been nudged. Castiel pulled him in by both hips, so possessive, undeniably wanton. Dean went with the pull, almost groaning aloud as he felt his own erection pressing into his thigh, only made aware of it as it pushed onto Castiel’s hip.

Dean broke them apart a few inches, looking down at himself. He could see the fat line of his cock, his lack of underwear under his jeans meaning he was untethered, straining against the softest part of his front pocket lining. He sighed, a little embarrassed. Too eager - and Castiel had felt it.

“That’s,” he stumbled, “that’s not, that’s not―”

Castiel tugged him close, head down to watch... as he began to rub his crotch against Dean’s. Just their crotches. Not their hips, not their legs. Their clothed erections. Cas was hard too.

“Ohh,” Dean whispered. “Cas...”

He couldn’t take his eyes off what was happening. Jeans against jeans, denim buzzing hot, zippers catching; thick, solid pleasure shot up Dean’s lower back, an angry, furious desire that he tried to tame, but he could feel himself failing.

Castiel’s head rested against the side of Dean’s, eyelashes only just flickering on Dean’s cheek. On purpose. Castiel was blinking on him on purpose.

Dean tipped his chin a few inches, putting his lips on Castiel’s. Not quite kissing, just resting there, tasting the cookie-crumb sweetness and the heat on his breath.

Castiel breathed out his name, a cloud of unfulfilled promises.

Dean put one kiss to his lips. Just the one.

Castiel put one back, tongue running the line of Dean’s dry mouth, soft and wet. Dean felt coolness linger as Castiel pulled back to breathe.

Dean stepped forward, and their bodies pressed together, hip to hip, belt buckles clinking, erections like mountains between the muscles of their thighs. Castiel’s breath caught, and his spine arched a little, smoothing into the slide of Dean’s hand as he ran it up his lower back.

Dean heard their kisses; smacks of saliva - he could almost hear the sweet taste, see the way it sparkled on their lips, on their tongues. Castiel’s breath on his cheek became hard, forceful as he grew to want more, demanding more from Dean’s kiss.

Dean’s couldn’t hold back the guttural groan that leapt from his throat, feeling Castiel grip his ass, hand wide, flat, grasping like he knew exactly what he wanted. Dean would let Castiel mould him, bend him any which way he cared to, fold him and break him as he saw fit.

Dean’s hands moved to rest either side of himself, braced against the front desk and the shelf which held stacks of coloured paper.

“A _uhh_ , Cas,” Dean whispered, head falling back. Castiel thrust against his crotch - fast, scorching movements that made Dean’s body pulse in time, almost his entire stance on Castiel’s hands, one of which rested on his ass, one in the dip of his lower back.

Dean’s face ached as his glasses pressed back into his face, lopsided, but he bore with it, not willing to stop kissing for any longer than a moment to remove them.

Castiel put his thigh between Dean’s, and Dean simply went with it, growling into the humid air, glad the room was cool, because he was burning up, arousal like lava in his veins.

“Dean,” Castiel said, and then―

Dean was left standing on his own feet, still holding the desk, heaving for air, eyes devouring the sight of Castiel in front of him, erection bulging his jeans, shirt half-untucked. They stood there, holding their ground for a few seconds.

It was enough time for a moral dilemma, but Dean couldn’t be fucked working out if what he wanted to do right now was a good thing or not. Little Dean was in charge at the moment.

Castiel, with his eyes on Dean’s straining zipper, seemed to have decided the same thing.

With a sigh, the two of them collapsed into each other, a brutal whine escaping Dean’s mouth upon feeling Castiel’s lips on his again, hand on his ass, one pressing finger in the dip under his legs. Castiel turned them around, shoving Dean onto the stool that rested beside the desk.

Dean sat on the stool with his boots on the tiles, legs parted where they’d fallen open. He clutched the top of the desk with his right hand, and with his left he beckoned Castiel closer.

The scent of Castiel’s body was nothing short of exquisite: unmistakably masculine, with a kind of danger on the edge that translated as perfect to Dean, making him ravenous. Dean pecked Castiel’s neck with kisses, breathing out against his skin, groaning as he mouthed his heat, the other man a furnace like him.

Castiel fumbled with Dean’s belt buckle, and Dean lifted his hips for him, eager to let his cock feel the bliss of this candle-bright air.

With a sound of satisfaction, Castiel whipped the length of Dean’s belt out of its buckle, and began on the tight button of his jeans, undoing the zipper as he went. Dean mumbled unthought words against Castiel’s temple, soft grunts punctuating each breath.

Castiel pulled back a little way so he could see what he’d revealed, and Dean revelled in the sight of Castiel looking at his cock. It pushed upward, smeared with translucent liquid down one side, shiny droplets resting on the rim of his foreskin. The flesh at the tip had grown pink, the length detailed with veins, the whole thing pulsing with want.

Dean rolled his hips experimentally, feeling his jeans sink down a bit, exposing his hip bones.

Castiel licked his lips, gaze rising to meet Dean’s with an unbridled mania behind his eyes. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

Dean blinked slowly, an open-mouthed smile feeling like a pleasure itself on his face.

Lips parting, Castiel’s eyes drew down to his own crotch.

Dean wrapped his hand around himself and tugged firmly, mindlessly seeking physical touch as he watched Castiel. Castiel undid his jeans, pulling his belt completely undone, slinging it down and letting the buckle slam onto the tiles. Dean watched those slender fingers of his undo the single button, twisting on it, then with a pinched thumb and forefinger, he dragged down his zipper.

Dean took Castiel by the waistband of his jeans and pulled him close, spreading his legs further to accommodate the wide hips of the other man. With a craving in his fingers, Dean tucked his hands under the elastic of Castiel’s white boxers and wriggled the band down. Hot skin brushed his knuckles as he went; his thumbs completed the task, letting the boxers settle under the defined cut of Castiel’s hips, and at last, he revealed Castiel’s member.

The mere sight of it made him feel desire, not just to touch, to lick, to kiss, but to have it be _his_. He wanted to be the one to make Castiel climax each and every time, and be the only person to make Castiel complain if he touched too much after poor Cas was spent.

Dean’s eye drew upward, meeting Castiel’s gaze just above the frames of his lowered spectacles. He appeared fuzzy to Dean, but he could make out Castiel watching him curiously, as if waiting for him to make the next move.

Dean parted his lips and rocked back in his stool. One arm held him steady against the desk, the other hand settled on Castiel’s hip for both their reassurance. Dean grinned foolishly, tilting his head. “Ride me to town, cowboy.”

Castiel’s confusion lasted less than a second, since Dean’s meaning had been clear in his tone rather than his words. Castiel lowered himself enough to level their crotches, and with one hand on Dean’s wrist, holding it down to the desk, Castiel put his cock against Dean’s and started to thrust against him.

Dean barked out a sharp noise, head falling back, eyes almost closing as pleasure rocketed through his body. His fingers went numb, his nipples pinched so tight he felt the cotton of his t-shirt bristling him. His hips held tense, while his lower back relaxed so absolutely that Castiel’s bumps and bruising forward pushes swayed him, making the stool grind on the tiles.

“Ohh, fuck,” Dean groaned, hand moving from Castiel’s hip to hold the back of his neck, gritting out a desperate growl in response to the all-consuming _want_ he felt. He couldn’t voice it; nothing but noises, so many sounds.

Castiel’s hand set itself on Dean’s lower back, under his shirt. His palm was sweating, but so was Dean’s back. The two of them rode against each other, Dean practically lifting himself out of his seat just to gain more contact with Castiel.

“Dean... mmmm, I’m so... hard... So, so hard―”

Dean chuckled, pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to Castiel’s neck and shoulders, clawing his shirt collar down so he could see more skin, smell more of his sweat. “Been this hard before?”

Castiel’s nod knocked against Dean’s ear, and Dean grumbled a soft sound, turning his head to kiss Castiel’s ear in return.

With a wicked grin, Dean offered words on his breath to Castiel. “You think about me sometimes?”

Castiel only whimpered, grabbing Dean harder, fucking him harder. Their cocks dragged with half-wet skin, Castiel’s exposed cockhead craving friction, humping furiously. Occasionally he slipped, and rutted against Dean’s tummy instead, pre-come slipping into Dean’s navel, minuscule droplets sparkling on his fine pubic hairs.

“I think about you,” Dean confessed, swallowing hard. “Sometimes.” Every time. “Can’t seem to help it.”

“Oo _uuuhhh_ ,” Castiel moaned, hands clutching any part of Dean he could get his hands on. His thighs, his hip bones, his back, the back of his head.

“Swap,” Dean said, out of breath, nudging Castiel’s side with his inner thigh. “You sit down and let me do the boinking.”

Castiel laughed, panting hard as he backed off, one hand holding his jeans so they didn’t fall. His face was flushed, cheeks pink, lips reddened. He swallowed quickly, tongue smacking. Dean curled around him, and Castiel sat down, patting inside his jeans to keep his boxers from riding back up. They nestled under his balls, pushing his cock upward. There was such a strain in Castiel’s dick; Dean could see it pulsing, cockhead swollen and shiny.

Castiel saw him looking, and Dean chuckled, smiling shyly. “Sorry, it’s just...” He wriggled forward, shifting their bare hips together, both sighing as they made contact again, wet heat and dry heat pushed tight. “I ain’t seen a cock for a real long time... Yours is a sight for sore eyes.”

Castiel hummed, one hand behind his own ass, holding his place on the stool as two of its legs rose up and tapped down on the tiles, rocked by Dean’s thrusts. “Your eyes won’t be all that’s sore... ah! - once we’re done here.”

Dean’s temperature rose again, a curdled groan breaking from his kiss-slick lips. “How sore we talkin’ here?”

Castiel rumbled a laugh, pulling Dean’s face down so he could huff against his lips, breathing on him, panting, eyelashes sweeping his cheekbones, the side of his nose pressed to his severely smudged glasses. “Sore enough.”

“Specific,” Dean chuckled, running teeth against Castiel’s lower lip, giving a single, gentle bite. “That sore enough?”

Castiel’s smile was sly, broken by his open mouth, his lips glistening in the candlelight. “Kiss me?”

Dean moaned as their mouths closed together, their sounds like an earthquake through their connected bodies, purrs thrumming, even more intense than the repeated thumps the stool made as it fell firmly to the tiles each time.

Castiel tasted like cookies, somehow different to the cookie Dean tasted. The scent of their pre-ejaculate was thick in the air, draped like a San Francisco fog over the scent of flowers, putting it on hold for a while. He could smell both their flesh, their heat, their sex. Raw, rubbing skin, pleasure bestowed to every sense Dean possessed.

He broke apart to breathe, head tilting down to watch their cocks, watching the meat under their skins sliding fast, racing for something they both knew was inevitable.

Dean groaned, long and low, both hands sliding to grasp Castiel’s ass, fingertips almost underneath him, fingernails pressing to the wood of the stool. The thick cloths of their jeans grazed each other, Dean’s unbuckled belt slowly sliding its way to join Castiel’s on the floor.

It seemed like he’d wanted this forever. For much longer than the twenty-one days he’d known Castiel. It felt like he’d wanted to touch Cas like this since before he knew what touch _was_.

“Kiss me again,” Castiel whispered, lips soft on the cartilage of Dean’s ear. “Dean, kiss me...”

Dean loved it. He loved hearing those words from this man.

He kissed, swallowing down Castiel’s soft sigh as he licked along Cas’ tongue, feeling the shivers it gave.

Their lips sealed, heads tilted. Dean’s glasses were skewed and smudged, their frames probably bent to hell by now. Fed up with it, Dean practically slammed a hand into his own face, grabbing the lenses and pulling them away, setting them onto the desk beside his book.

Breathless, he returned to lavish his kisses on Castiel’s throat, burning with sensation all over at the feel of Castiel’s tumbling, deep groan in his throat. It ended with a mewl so light and breathy that Dean chased the sound, wanting it again, feeling powerful from the way Castiel let himself show such weakness.

“Deannn,” Castiel complained, bristled chin knocking at Dean’s forehead as he leaned down. “Dean, kiss me... please, please kiss me...”

Dean sank close again and nipped Castiel’s throat, the tiny bite followed by a kiss, lips stung by his stubble. Murmuring, Dean trailed kisses towards Castiel’s mouth, each one sucking, soft, and tiny.

Castiel opened his mouth as Dean got close, and Dean put his lips directly on the tip of Castiel’s waiting tongue, gasping to let it inside him.

Castiel grabbed the back of Dean’s head so suddenly that Dean opened his eyes in surprise, but sighed and settled them closed once more, as the gluttony he found in Castiel’s kisses took over.

Their hips stuttered rather than humped now, wanting to share kisses instead. Dean was becoming more lost in the feel of Castiel’s tongue than he ever thought it was possible to be.

Castiel moaned as he broke their kiss, and Dean felt the flickers of his lashes on his cheek - but they didn’t flutter closed again, so Dean opened his eyes to check what Castiel was looking it.

He smiled as he saw Castiel watching him from an inch away, fluttering candlelight scooping curves on his pale-tan cheeks, blue eyes turned a hushed golden on one side. His irises were almost entirely swallowed by the darkness of his arousal, and Dean smiled, hoping he looked at least half as beautiful to Castiel as Castiel did to him - in this moment, and always.

Dean had said those three special words to him, once, by mistake. He would have said them again now, on purpose, but the firm hand that took him in its grip entirely diverted his attention.

He gasped, looking down to see Castiel’s fist pumping over his cockhead, thumb forced to slide against his slit. The grooved pad of Castiel’s thumb found the _inside_ part of Dean’s tiny hole, and Dean howled under his breath, frowning, gasping, whole body locked stiff.

Castiel puffed out a note of satisfaction, his free hand gripping around Dean’s left hip, fingers almost on his ass inside his jeans. Dean stood there on shaky legs, with both of his hands locked behind Castiel’s neck; his fingers felt cold against the fuming heat of Castiel’s nape, the curls at the back of his hair tickling at his hands.

Dean was going blind from the pleasure of this, wailing countless and pointless sounds, panting out breath he didn’t have, hips rocking forward and meeting nothing but that hand that already held him.

Castiel put his lips against Dean’s neck, opened his mouth, tongued his skin. Dean cried out a horrendous sound that could have put Lucifer’s nightly warbling to shame, and blackness overtook his mind.

All he felt was Castiel. _Doing_ this to him.

“That’s it, Dean, easy... easy...” Castiel whispered, voice guiding him from his shoulder like a fucking angel. “You can let go. I want to feel when it happens.”

Dean moaned, forcing his eyes open, seeing stars that weren’t quite there. “Let - _ah_ uhh - let me swap, let me sit. I can’t.... Oh fuck, I’m gonna fall over...”

Castiel let go of Dean’s cock, and Dean could have screamed out of frustration; that loss felt like Hell for the five seconds it was gone. The stool took his weight as he sat in Castiel’s place, arching his back against the side of the desk, its ridge pressed between two of his ribs and on part of his spine. He sighed, a trembling sound breaking in his throat as Castiel’s hand found his cock again.

“There, Dean,” Castiel said, tongue lapping once on Dean’s lips as he spoke. “Kiss me. Kiss me and I’ll make you come.”

Dean fisted a hand into Castiel’s hair, forcing their mouths together. He felt teeth on his lips, and he didn’t care, he wanted the kiss as badly as he wanted to come. If anything, he just wanted Castiel to be satisfied, wanted to give him the kisses he asked for.

Dean was pretty sure he would have happily gone home unsatisfied if it meant Cas got the kisses he needed.

“Ohhmmm, _Dean_...”

Dean kissed, kissed, kissed. His whole world narrowed from the shop around them to just the shape of Castiel’s lips, the depth of his mouth, the heat that spilled between them when their tongues touched.

Kissing Castiel was like swallowing lightning. When he moaned it put thunder in Dean’s body, and as Castiel’s cock began to rub against Dean’s inner thigh, that same thunder escaped Dean’s mouth, too.

“C―” Dean couldn’t speak his name any more, the thumb in his slit was too much - so much that he wondered how he’d held on this long in the first place. “Shhh...it,” he managed, lips edging on Castiel’s, rubbing on his skin. Kiss, kiss, kiss―

The built-up passion and pressure and desperate climbing all led into a fast spurt of release, and it didn’t come like a crash of cymbals or an explosion, merely a sigh. Not with a bang, but with a whimper: a long, soft, caress of senses, Castiel holding him through it, hand still moving, thumb shifted enough to let Dean spill his tension away.

He shivered as it ended; perfect - so _perfect_.

“Dean?”

“Mmmm... hm?” Dean slurred out a hum, thoughts dragging, his heartbeat in his ears pounding in slow motion.

“Kiss me?”

Dean smiled, a lengthy chuckle rumbling in him as he lifted his face, slow and gentle kisses pushing to Castiel’s lips, pleasure still simmering in him with twinges and washes of grace, the scent of Castiel ever potent and delicious.

Castiel’s cock pushed heavy pressure against Dean’s thigh, his member rutting into the space between Dean’s leg and his hip. His heat felt massive, wetness seeping as a continuous dribble across Dean’s leg hair. Dean broke the kiss to watch it, watching Castiel’s cockhead spreading pre-come into a messy line.

Dean put his hand against it, offering a cocoon to surround Castiel’s cock, letting him keep doing what he was doing. But Castiel only wanted one thing: “Kiss... I want to kiss, Dean...”

Every time, it sent shivers down Dean’s spine. He matched up their lips like a puzzle, warm and inviting this time, now they knew each other’s shapes. He wondered if he could purposefully stop kissing again, just to make Castiel want it, ask him again, beg for it.

But no, Dean wanted it too much to let it end. Kissing Castiel was so rewarding, so comfortable. There was a terrible pleasure, yes - physical, so physical. Lips no longer chapped, roughness rubbed away by their kisses. Breath no longer tasted like cookies, but like _Castiel_ ; Dean knew his taste, now separate entirely from the sweetness. Stubble felt hot on his skin; burned from exposure. But this pleasure, it went further than Dean’s pulsing blood. His heart soared with it.

Cas was the scent of flowers for his _heart_.

Castiel broke the kiss just to moan, words on the sound, “Kiss me... Dean... _aohhh_...!” before falling back to his mouth.

Obsessed with it, they both were.

This wasn’t a demanding game any more, not since Dean climaxed and their combined desperation waned. This had become a slow and torturously gentle session, their hands petting, exploring. Dean explored the shape of Castiel’s cockhead under his fingers, learning the thickness of his emissions, the weight of his scrotum in his hand. This was a lesson, just as it had started out - but this time, not for Castiel, not for him to learn what to do with Daphne. A lesson on each other. Dean and Castiel.

Dean turned his head and sighed, sinking deeper into Castiel’s mouth, a sluggish groan simmering under his tongue.

Castiel’s kiss suddenly became a gasp, and Dean startled at the heat that spread over his hand. He looked down, and with his lower lip under his teeth, lifted the hem of his t-shirt, letting Castiel continue to spill onto his stomach, the warmth of it intoxicating, like it was seeping into Dean’s own body.

Castiel kept his eyes lowered, one hand taking hold of his erection, pumping it until he was empty, pressing the last drop from himself with a grunt of effort, cock still tremendously hard.

Dean looked at the splatter that covered his skin, purring under his breath. He loved seeing himself like that, used up, covered with someone else’s pleasure. It was like seeing his work finalised, a job well done. It was a prize, a compliment without the need for words.

He peered up at Castiel through his lashes, feeling the blush on his cheeks. He truly wondered if Castiel thought his particular enjoyment of Cas’ climax was strange. However, Castiel had a ghostly smile on his lips, eyes shining with contentment.

“Let me,” Castiel said, pressing himself close to Dean. Dean breathed in, expecting a kiss, but instead heard the puff of a Kleenex being pulled from the shelf closest to him. He swallowed, relaxing as Castiel stood straight, legs apart a little to keep his jeans from slipping down his thighs.

Dean kept his t-shirt raised as Castiel began to wipe him down, using tender, careful strokes that left not a single droplet remaining. Dean chuckled as the tissue tickled him; Castiel’s hand cupped his cheek, and Dean made a small noise of encouragement, eyes still lowered to watch Castiel’s hands.

Castiel cleaned up Dean’s own splashes of white, too, then took both of his hands in turn, a new tissue used for each. He cleaned between every finger, attention focused over each palm. Castiel’s hands touched so much of Dean’s, so much that Dean gathered it wasn’t by accident. Like kisses, Castiel wanted Dean’s hands.

Then Castiel went the whole nine yards and poured kisses onto Dean’s hands. His lips were swollen and soft against his skin, and the tiny smooching noises that made it to Dean’s ears were just as tender.

Dean felt a part of himself drowning in a ravine of... endlessness. This wasn’t over, because he was going to want more of this. Castiel would want it, too.

Dean didn’t know how he was going to get Castiel to stop seeing Daphne. He was all for sharing the love, but not like this. He wanted Castiel to himself, he wanted to be the _only_ person whose hands he would kiss like this, tongue poking gently to the middle of his palm.

Castiel closed his eyes, breathed out, and turned Dean’s hand over. He pulled it up to his face, and slid a finger into his mouth; his tongue cradled it, giving the fingertip a faint suckle. Dean felt _everything_ ; he held back his moan, but Castiel seemed to sense his stuttering breath in any case, and opened his eyes.

With a soft sound of finality, Castiel let Dean’s hands rest back in his lap, before he took a step back to pull up his underwear, penis jolted by the movements he used to cover himself. With his belt replaced and his jeans done up, he turned his eye on Dean. “Will you dress again, or...?”

Dean startled at the sound of Castiel’s calm voice, so different to the heavy, lustful noises he’d made before. Dean stood quickly, pulling up his jeans and tucking himself in, doing the button and zipper up one-handed. He swallowed, then sat back down on shaky legs.

Castiel cleared his throat, a minute frown appearing and immediately disappearing from his face. “Dean, may I...?”

“Hm?”

Castiel tentatively stepped back between Dean’s knees, eyes uncertain as he got closer. “I know... this is over, right now, but... please,” he said, “I want to kiss. Just once more?”

Dean grinned, an unexpected blush heating his cheeks again. His eyes closed halfway, lips parting as he waited for Castiel to occupy his mouth. He did, and Dean joined him, tongue playing along Castiel’s lips, hands wandering to hold his shoulders, strong.

The kiss was meant to end, but it didn’t. It didn’t heat, nor drag, it only went on, and on. Dean simply didn’t _want_ it to end.

Castiel at last breathed away, meeting Dean’s eyes. Castiel’s face was basked in darkness and highlighted in orange, the last of the sun gone while Dean hadn’t been paying attention. Dean expected him to pull away now, but again, Dean didn’t want to let Castiel go free, too enticed by the feel of his arms around him, the unwavering form that held him tight.

Saddened, Dean buried his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck, cheek on his shoulder, flat against his now-cooling skin. His scent seemed calmer now, the tossing ocean quiet after the storm.

Dean pulled in a deep breath, savouring it, holding the special air inside until he couldn’t any more. As he breathed out, his voice caught on the sound, and his sigh came out as a long, yearning groan; “Caaas...”

Castiel shifted closer, letting Dean stand up, their hug pressing their hearts together. “Cas...”

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean chuckled. “Nothin’. Nah, I’m just... man, I’m really chilled-out. Like, right this moment.” He sighed again, quickly this time. “Just thought you should know.”

Castiel’s laugh was more of a vibration, and Dean rubbed his back, feeling his ribs shaking under his hold. “I’m... very happy. Right at this moment.”

Dean smiled, knowing Castiel could feel it against his neck. He put a kiss to his skin, then nosed his way so they stood face-to-face. Dean swallowed.

“Happy, huh?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.”

Dean’s eyes dipped to watch Castiel lick his lips. As he lifted his gaze again, he noticed Castiel’s smile, subtle - and yet, it still reached his eyes, wrinkling the corners the same way his adorable confused squint did.

Dean closed his eyes and put a single kiss on Castiel’s lips. As he pulled back again, he smiled too. “One more for luck.”

“Do I need luck?”

Dean tilted his head in a noncommittal shrug. “If you really want things to work with Daphne, then I’d say yeah.”

Castiel’s gaze fell, and Dean felt him pull away a bit. Then, he pulled away completely.

Dean didn’t just regret his words, but he felt cruel, too. He’d said it on purpose, because when he brought up Daphne, it was some kind of sick guilt trip. He wanted Cas to _get_ how crazy his thing with Daphne was, because clearly he couldn’t yet see how much he didn’t want to be with her. Every time Dean said Daphne’s name, said anything that put Daphne and Castiel together, Dean wanted Castiel to freak out. Wanted him to see it was too much, too much of an expectation that Castiel wasn’t ready or willing to live up to.

But Castiel rubbed his hand through his hair, shaking his head as he turned away from Dean. “Thank you for the luck, Dean.” He looked to the clock, then sighed. “I have to meet her in less than half an hour. I’m having one of my father’s limousines pick her up.”

Dean balked, pausing as he picked up his glasses. “Damn, Cas, who the heck is your father? He’s got _more than one_ limo?”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. He looked back to Dean with a subdued sadness in his eyes, watching Dean clean his glasses frames on his t-shirt. “He’s a well-known man in this city.”

“Have I heard of him? Been here three months though, so maybe I haven’t.”

Castiel shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, _I_ would, if you told me his name. Or do I have to get Sam to do his Google-fu thing? I’ll warn you, he’s tracked down people who were missing for a decade, just via the internet. He’s a cool kid like that.”

Castiel’s little smile seemed more reflective of Dean’s pride than actually happy. Dean slid his newly-polished glasses onto his nose, and saw Castiel clearly, seeing the sharp blue of his eyes, even as he stared away from Dean. Finally Castiel shook his head, gaze flicking to Dean, then to the floor. “Please don’t look him up. Not yet. I’m afraid I’m still not... brave enough. I need to tell you something, I just can’t.”

“It’ll ruin everything, or something,” Dean recalled a conversation from days and days ago. Castiel nodded, doing up his tie.

Dean smirked, going forward to help Castiel, in case he did his tie the wrong way round again. Dean had had to fix it at least five times, and he had started to wonder if Cas actually enjoyed Dean fixing it. Going by the attention Castiel devoted to Dean’s hands today, and the keen way his eyes followed every movement of Dean’s fingers now... Yeah, maybe Dean wasn’t the only one who had some odd kinks.

Castiel sighed, wearing a wonky smile as Dean wobbled the tie knot, setting it straight. Castiel took in a deep breath, presumably to lend himself some bravery, but Dean still got nothing, and Castiel turned away.

He put on his suit jacket, then his trenchcoat. There had been times he’d attended dates in clothes Dean felt the urge to burn, but most of the time, he wore his suits. Those suits were starting to grow on Dean; he imagined Cas wearing them in many of his fantasies - even the trenchcoat played a starring role, on occasion.

Castiel strode to the door of the shop, wringing his hands.

Dean cleared his throat. “You, uh, might wanna find someplace to wash up properly before you go see Daphne.”

Castiel turned to Dean but didn’t meet his eye, an embarrassed smile on his handsome lips. “Yes,” he said, quietly.

Dean nodded, and kept nodding.

Castiel hovered by the door, fingers reaching for the handle but never quite making it there, slowly curling his long fingers into a loose fist.

Dean wondered if Cas would call Daphne and cancel, tell her he had something else important to do tonight - namely, Dean. Better yet, take Dean in the limo instead, show him all the butterflies and the flowers, walk hand-in-hand through the stars of the summer night.

But Castiel’s hand found the handle, and the bell clinged. The door paused there, however, and Castiel’s eyes searched the shop.

“I ought not take her flowers,” he said, distractedly. “She wouldn’t be able to carry them around all night.”

Dean was disappointed, and he let himself feel it. He was hoping Castiel had paused for thoughts of _him_ , not his girlfriend. Dean lowered his eyes and turned away.

“Um, Dean...”

Dean turned to look at him, curious.

“Dean, m―” Castiel licked his lips, “May I kiss you again? One last time.”

Dean’s heart fluttered like _all_ the butterflies were as happy as he was. He edged forward, hearing the door clink shut as his mouth met Castiel’s, eyes closed, glasses frames caught on Castiel’s cheekbone. They breathed out as one, their combined exhale gushing hotly against their cheeks.

Castiel hugged tightly, arms looping Dean’s lower back, letting Dean clutch the back of his shoulders, one hand tucked around the nape of his neck.

Dean murmured a long and satisfied note, which ended as Castiel pulled away to breathe. They both wore matching smiles, smug, contented.

Castiel stepped back to the door, hand pulling it open. The light from the candles drew an outline of orange around the handle, and as Castiel let the night breeze enter, he turned back to look at Dean.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

Dean nodded eagerly, moving to lean on the doorframe as Castiel hung beside it. “Send me some photos or something from your date. Butterflies and... yeah.”

Castiel’s smile was sweet, borderline bashful.

Dean never saw it coming as Castiel leaned in, and put one last peck to his cheek. Breath gushed over his skin, then Castiel rushed away. Dean leaned out into the street, hearing the wooden shop sign creaking over his head, watching Castiel’s trenchcoat flap. The lights from the buildings he passed spilled over his receding shape, like repeating frames in an old projector movie.

Dean sank back inside his shop with a soft laugh, filled with a warmth contrary to the chill that had crawled in through the open door.

Taking his time to blow out each of the candles, Dean supposed that really, despite most of today being total crap, the past half-hour or so had to make up an awfully large chunk of not just today, but his whole life.

Castiel said he felt happy as he stood held in Dean’s arms. There wasn’t a word Dean could think of that expressed what he himself felt, but as far as his feelings went, ‘happy’ was a step in the right direction. And he was a long, _long_ way gone in that direction.


	9. Moths

Emanuel cleared his throat as he stepped out of the limousine, hearing Crowley’s annoyed shout about the door he left open. He ducked and shot Crowley a flat smile of compliance, and pushed the door closed.

The light from Daphne’s front porch spilled over the front yard, unmoving lights cast in trails down the sides of the black car. Emanuel turned, hands fiddling empty as he made his way up the front path, eyes on the skinny tree as he passed it on his left. Its leaves seemed larger than he remembered; perhaps it was a trick of the darkness.

Shoes tapped on the concrete as he made his way up the stairs. He purposefully refrained from putting his hands into his pockets after knocking on the door; he aimed to be open with Daphne, show her his hands, as if doing so would prove his innocence.

He tried not to feel guilty. One man’s scent would surely seem much like another’s; Daphne wouldn’t be able to tell that Castiel was wearing eau de Dean Wesson. His clothes were fresh, at least - thanks to Crowley, tonight's borrowed limousine driver.

The misty shadow of Daphne appeared behind the glass in the door, and the warm gold broke to reveal her face, smiling up at Emanuel.

“Good evening,” Emanuel said, glancing down to see Daphne’s purple thigh-length dress, draped in tassels, sleeveless. A style popular in the 1920’s, if he wasn’t mistaken. “You look wonderful.”

“Oh, you,” Daphne cooed, petting Emanuel’s cheek. “I’m ready to go, just let me grab my bag.”

“I’m sorry I’m late, I was held up.”

“Don’t worry about it, honestly. Juliette had to be dropped off at a friend’s house, so really, once I got back and sorted myself out...” Daphne stepped outside, her flat heels bristling the welcome mat. “You got here just in time.” She closed the door, slipping the door key into the lock and turning it until it clacked.

With their hands together, Emanuel led the way down the stairs, watching the porch light put fine highlights into the waves of Daphne’s hair. Her lipstick was redder than ever, but last week Emanuel had been assured that it was a new brand, not tested on animals. He’d not mentioned it since.

“Ah, are we taking the car?”

Emanuel nodded. “Crowley’s driving us. I thought it would save us walking.”

“I have a cardigan in my bag,” Daphne said, petting the large dangling purse that was hooked over one arm. “I wouldn’t get cold.”

“Maybe we could walk back.” Emanuel offered a smile as he opened the back door of the limousine for her, letting her get comfortable before he followed her in. He pulled the door closed behind him, and as it shut, it gave an expensively-designed hiss of sealing air. He exhaled, feeling warmth caress his now-burning cheeks.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” Daphne asked, eyes turning away from the view outside and to Emanuel’s face, just as the car pulled out into the street. They glided on silent wheels, the purr of the engine so faint that they could have been riding nothing but fog.

Emanuel watched the back of Crowley’s balding head, and he got the sense that the man was listening to him intently. “Nothing much,” he said.

“I see,” Daphne replied. Emanuel caught her eyes drifting slyly to the driver, then to Emanuel. “It’s been such a lovely summer so far, but I haven’t done much with it. We ought to make use of the good weather.”

“Yes.”

Emanuel couldn’t relax, not even when Daphne groped for a champagne bottle, laughing when Emanuel failed to open it. Daphne’s laugh was light and airy, but still, the sound of her amusement didn’t drag his mind away from the heaviness of the flower shop.

He was still playing over each touch in his mind, still sensing the grip of Dean’s hands on his body. He could still _smell_ Dean on him when he breathed in, and it was distracting. He couldn’t break from it; Dean had well and truly intoxicated him for the night.

Relief came as they arrived at their destination and Crowley ordered them out of the car, his British accent snapping syllables of “Welcome to Golden Gate Park. Have a nice night, you posh wankers,” before he drove off fast enough to warrant Emanuel to consider that he was stealing the car.

He shook his head, trying to clear away stacked thoughts. He offered the crook of his elbow to Daphne, and smiled when she took it. “I think we’re just on time.”

They followed the paths of the Gardens in the dark, their steps gentle on gravel, aiming for the beacon of light ahead. The glass dome of the Conservatory was lit from inside, buzzing with moving spots that drifted across the glass, like wartime searchlights.

“Flashlights,” Emanuel explained, tilting his head to Daphne. “Visitors are looking for moths.”

Daphne shuddered. “Moths?”

“Well, it _is_ night. I assume the butterflies are sleeping.”

Daphne gave a disgruntled hum.

The white metal lattices that covered the gigantic building before them grew as they got closer. When the Conservatory was looming in front of them, Emanuel darted ahead, reaching to open the door for Daphne. She stepped inside, and Emanuel followed, blinking rapidly at the wash of tropical heat that covered him.

“Gosh, it’s like a sauna in here,” Daphne said, immediately taking off her cardigan. Emanuel held it for her as she adjusted her bag, then she took it back to slip the cardigan through the handle.

Emanuel looked around him, breathing the humid air and tasting the glory of everything around him. Flowers and blooms of all colours, shapes and sizes displayed their full splendour, green leaves and vines climbing every wall, hanging from every rafter.

He gaped open-mouthed at the white grid that made up the windows - and windows were the entirety of this greenhouse, dirtied and misted by age.

By the time Emanuel looked down again, Daphne was already in conversation with a guide, laughing with her, a fond glance passed back in the direction of Emanuel. He moved to stand beside them both, nodding to the guide as she confirmed his reservation name.

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Montmorency, I hope you have a great evening, and if there’s anything you need, come find one of our staff. We’re all wearing the green shirts, we stick out like sore thumbs.” She laughed, her dark eyes settled on Daphne, the two women sharing some sort of joke.

Emanuel watched the guide rush away, moving to another group who’d just arrived; tall people with curled blonde hair, wearing backpacks, cameras slung around their necks.

“No need to look so confused, hon, she gave us a guide leaflet,” Daphne said, lifting Emanuel’s hand to put a flashlight into his grip.

“I didn’t tell them that,” Emanuel said, pointing at the guide. “I didn’t tell them you and I were married.”

“Well, some people like to assume,” Daphne said, kindly, putting their hands together and squeezing. “And we ought to take it as a compliment, really. We probably look quite comfortable together.” She started walking slowly, eyes on the drooping gigantic leaf that was shaped like an umbrella, hung over half the path.

“Comfortable? Is that what you feel?” Emanuel asked, frowning as he watched his feet in the beam of his own flashlight.

Daphne chuckled. “It’s a distinct possibility, yes.”

“Oh.” Finding comfort was good, wasn’t it?

Two laughing children hurried across a perpendicular path, a parent hurrying after them, scolding them. Emanuel watched them turn a corner, an orange orchid waving in their wake.

That could be him, someday, he thought. One day soon, he could be a father.

He might have to _breed_.

That thought left him as squeamish as moths seemed to make Daphne. She squeaked and pressed herself against Emanuel’s side, her flashlight sweeping quickly over nearby plants, a column of light thrown into the dense air.

“Perhaps I should have checked with you before bringing you here,” Emanuel admitted, feeling a sunken heaviness in his stomach. This date seemed wasted. Dean would have loved it, Daphne hated it. It was all wrong.

But Daphne laughed. “Oh, no... No, it’s fine. It’ll take some getting used to. I’m not a jumpy person in general, I swear.”

“Then,” Emanuel smiled as a sudden flap of green wings in their path made her gasp, “why are you so jumpy now?”

Daphne dragged their hands a little closer, fingers locking together. “Don’t you find that sometimes, when you’re with someone... I don’t know, someone you _like_ \- that your reactions are more pronounced than when you’re alone? When you’re watching a funny movie, for example. It’s not spectacular when you’re by yourself, but in company, that’s the only time you laugh aloud.”

Emanuel swallowed. “I don’t tend to watch movies with other people.”

“Ah,” Daphne said, giving a faint cackle. “Now why is that, I wonder? Let me guess, you like the kind of movies you’d rather keep... ooh, private?” She grinned at him, eyes bright as Emanuel peered at her in confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

With eyelashes lowered, Daphne paused their slow steps so she could lean up to Emanuel’s ear, breath tickling his ear as she whispered, “Pornography, my dear fellow.”

Emanuel swept his flashlight into Daphne’s face, scrutinising her even as she laughed and complained about the light with a squawk, ducking away. “All right, all right,” she sniggered, settling down her tasseled dress with smoothing hands. “Too private. This isn’t an interrogation, feel free to opt out.”

“I opt out,” Emanuel said.

Daphne hummed and rolled her eyes high, looping her arm through Emanuel’s again.

They wandered here and there, slowing in places to look at the plants. Emanuel named each kind before Daphne could even reach for the guide booklet; Dean’s company had lent him a fair amount of botanic knowledge.

The array of orchids here astounded him; he’d never seen so many types. In particular, he liked the vine-line one, blossoms pinched and cute, their stem holding tight to the bar it curled on.

Once they reached the border of the lilypad pond, Daphne even stood still enough for a huge green luna moth to perch upon her shoulder. She held her breath, her smile tight and wobbly. Emanuel told her it made a fine addition to her already fine outfit; she laughed, and the shake dislodged the moth. They turned and watched it fly away, flaps of green trailing a tail like a kite in the beam of Daphne’s light.

The warmth of the greenhouse started to get to Emanuel after maybe twenty minutes, and he was forced to remove his coat by Daphne, who very bluntly told him that the sheen of sweat on his upper lip was unbecoming. He let the coat hang over his forearm, soon joined by his red velvet button-down dinner jacket. He blamed Crowley for the attire, and only once he’d said the words did he realise what Daphne and the Conservatory guide had been laughing about when they looked at him.

“Don’t take it personally, Emanuel,” Daphne said, crossing her pale knees over each other as they sat down to rest on a stone bench. “Sometimes when people are rich, they assume all style is good style.”

Emanuel frowned. “I never assumed such a thing.”

“I liked when you wore suits all the time,” Daphne said; a withering smile crossed her face briefly. “Honestly, Emanuel , what on Earth happened to those? Now you wear... _that_.”

Emanuel looked at his striped shirt, then at Daphne. “I hate this shirt.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “Then why did you buy it?”

Emanuel lowered his gaze to his lap, seeing someone’s flashlight beam drag over his polished shoes. He couldn’t explain himself without giving away the secret of keeping ‘Castiel’ separate, so he shook his head. “I don’t know. Today Crowley is my excuse. I think he attempted to find every article of clothing that would make me look as foolish as possible.”

Daphne squinted at him. “Did you not manage to get home before coming out tonight?”

Emanuel dragged in a breath, searching for his answer in the air, his inhale feeling giant in his lungs. “I _was_ wearing a suit. And then I had to change.”

“Why―”

“I opt out again,” Emanuel said, quickly. He was glad the mid-darkness would hide his heating face, keeping his blush invisible. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Daphne said, a grin in her words. “You really are as private as your father said.”

Emanuel looked away.

Daphne sighed, unfolding her legs.

Some people approached them, and Emanuel looked around to see the group of tall blonde tourists hanging around, close to them. Their male leader approached Daphne, and in a thick German accent, he asked her to take a picture of his group.

“Of course,” she smiled, standing up. “Emanuel, hold onto my bag for me? I won’t be long.”

Emanuel sat quietly, watching her swept up with the tourists, being offered hands to shake by six other people. As they bustled around, setting down their bags beside the stone pond, he realised that Daphne might be some time. These people were chatting, making conversation. Daphne tucked her hair behind her ears, letting one of the female tourists touch her decorative clip.

On a whim, Emanuel lifted his hips from the bench and slid his hand into the front pocket of his very skinny jeans, grunting as he struggled to retrieve his iPhone. He straightened up with a sigh, fingers aching from their fight with the denim.

He found the video application on the phone, and with his flashlight moved experimentally around himself to check the light settings would show up, he pointed the lens at himself and hit record.

“Uh―” Castiel set down the flashlight on the bench, leaving its light rebounding off the grey denim on his thigh, putting a twinkle on his eyelashes.

“Hello, Dean,” he said to the camera. He licked his lips, eyes quickly darting to Daphne, checking she was still busy. “Daphne is over there, I have a minute...” He locked his gaze to the lens, as if looking into Dean’s eyes.

“The Conservatory is beautiful, as you already know. It’s...” he smiled, “warm. Warm like a rainforest, it almost feels like it just rained. Your shop is always so cool, but here it feels like... I don’t know, it’s like I’m breathing underwater.”

He looked around, then figured Dean might like to observe for himself. He twisted the phone around, watching the screen as he tracked the ambience of the place that surrounded him. Shouts from children went up from distant corners, rebounding the way they would in the tiled area of an inside swimming pool. Flashlights flickered between the shapes of plant leaves, green edges filtered bright for mere seconds before the light moved away.

A moth fluttered into the lens, and Castiel laughed, tipping the camera to puff air against it. The creature fluttered, and then took its leave, silently receding into the darkness.

“I’m told there are butterflies in the rafters,” Castiel said, turning the lens back on himself, phone raised to eye level. “But as I’ve told Daphne, and... yes, like I think I told you last week, I’m afraid of heights.” He blinked, a quiet smile playing on his lips as he remembered Dean’s teasing words, which had quickly been followed by wiser ones: Castiel wasn’t afraid of heights, but afraid of falling.

Castiel sighed, checking on Daphne again. She was snapping pictures with a large camera, laughing as the tourists arranged different poses with each other.

“Um,” Castiel said. He looked back to the lens. “The ambience here is incredible. I have no doubt you’d like it. The moths scare Daphne, or at least make her uncomfortable. I really think... Oh, Dean. I’m so sorry I didn’t bring you out here. It would have been so much fun. There’s families here, and tourists, and so many flowers. I know some of the kinds, not all of them.” He grinned. “You’d know them. You’d know the scientific names of all the orchids, I know you would.”

His gaze fell to his lap, and he shook his head. “One day you and I should come here. I’d like to see...”

He trailed off, his smile becoming a little sad, an ache in his face. “I’d like to see how much it would all make you smile. But even just tonight... I wish you were here.”

Daphne came to a standstill right beside Emanuel’s knee, and his eyes drew to her curious face. He ended the video, sliding the phone to his lap. He couldn’t take his eyes off Daphne’s face, knowing she’d heard the last part.

“Who was that?” she asked, softly.

Emanuel swallowed, putting his fingers under his thighs, eyes on his phone in his lap. “Dean. My friend.”

“I remember.” She smiled, sitting down beside him. He watched her tilt her head, and she went on, “You talk about him a lot. This Dean of yours.”

_Yours_. Emanuel liked that.

“I’m sorry,” Emanuel said.

Daphne laughed, genuine surprise on her face. “Hon, you can talk about him. No need to apologise. What sort of relationship would this be if we didn’t let each other talk about other people, hmm?”

Emanuel didn’t really have an answer.

“Okay, I don’t mean to interrogate you again,” she soothed, running a single hand over his knee, then pulling it back. “Let’s start easy, get a picture in my mind. What does he look like?”

Emanuel smiled, eyes not leaving the stone slabs of the floor. “He’s... um. Very - attractive, I suppose. Caucasian, a little tanned. He has browny-blonde hair, I don’t really know if there’s a word for the colour. It falls forward over his forehead when it’s wet. Spiky when it’s dry. Always looks like it’s soft...”

He sighed, closing his eyes, visualising Dean in his mind. It was easy; so often, he was all he saw when he closed his eyes. “Smile’s... beautiful... Straight teeth. Lips... nice lips. Reddish, pinkish, different depending on the light.” And depending on how much he’d been kissed, but some things were better left unsaid.

“Green eyes. When you get close it’s like there’s mountain ranges in his eyes, in the sun there’s hazel specks, golden specks. He usually wears glasses.” He shook his head, still smiling. “His eyelashes are long. Might go on forever.”

He felt waves of pleasure rocking in him, just the mere thought of Dean making him react. He was falling deeply into this description, hoping he wouldn’t get a detail wrong. But then, how could he? He knew every part of Dean by heart now, he was sure of it.

“He has bristles on his jaw. I think he uses a special razor, his stubble is always the same length. Like mine,” he added, with a quick tilt of his head. “Hmm. Very pink tongue. He licks his lips a lot.”

Emanuel couldn’t help the long, long sigh that rushed out of his mouth, just as he breathed, “Freckles.” He swallowed. “Across his nose. Maybe they go across his shoulders, too... And... oh, his hands...”

Emanuel could have moaned, but he knew full well that Daphne was listening. He couldn’t draw himself out of the visualisation, though, so he kept going; still so much to describe. “His legs are bowed outward at the knee - it sounds unattractive, I know, but on him...”

Emanuel finally opened his eyes, resting his gaze on the ceiling. “He talks with an accent I’ve never been able to place. It’s like he’s travelled everywhere, all over the U.S.. He won’t tell me where he came from, but I know it’s somewhere in the mid-west. Sometimes he slips into a Texan accent.”

Sometimes, that is, when in the heat of passion, when kissing, when Castiel’s hand touched him intimately.

“It’s a beautiful sound. I’ve never thought an accent was attractive before, but Dean...” Emanuel chuckled, leaning over his thighs, head tipped down.

“You think about him a lot, too,” Daphne said, tone soft, warm. She rested her side against Emanuel. “You must be close.”

Emanuel smiled, watching his own thumbs press together, lit only by moving flashlights from the tourists who still hung around.

“Oh,” he said, grappling for his phone, “I have a picture of him. I could show you.”

“Hmm, now we can see if your description matches up,” Daphne said, grinning.

Emanuel shifted through the few photographs he had stored on the device, turning the little screen away so Daphne wouldn’t see the topless photo of Castiel.

Finding the photo of Dean, he zoomed in on his face, so Dean’s bare chest wouldn’t be visible to Daphne. The flower crown on Dean’s head brought back memories to Emanuel that made his body stir with heat, but again, he clamped it down before it took hold.

“Here,” he said, offering Daphne the phone. “This is Dean.”

“Oh, he is very handsome, isn’t he?” she smiled, a low note in her voice, something that sounded like trepidation to Emanuel. He looked at her face, but saw her smile and relaxed.

Daphne held onto the phone, and swiped her thumb to make the image zoom out. Emanuel lunged for the phone, but she chuckled, moving it out of his grasp. “Did he take this photo of himself?”

Emanuel was definitely blushing, panic making his heart pound. “Yes.”

Daphne smiled, catching Emanuel’s eye, then returning her focus to the phone. “I’ve never met someone our age who’s not only confident like that but also... you know, actually looks nice topless.”

“We’re not that old,” Emanuel complained, but the thought ended as Daphne flicked her thumb, and the previous photo showed on the screen. “That’s a pansy Dean gave me,” Emanuel told her. “I thought it looked nice.”

“It does,” Daphne said, tilting the phone so it oriented to landscape rather than portrait. “Is this your bedroom?”

Emanuel nodded. “There used to be a pile of books there. But I thought the plant deserved the space.”

Daphne made a sound that said she was listening but had nothing to add, and she skimmed onto the previous photo. “And... what’s this?”

Emanuel looked closer, then laughed as he saw the fuzz of grey that made up the entire picture. “When I first got the phone I tried to use the camera. I think I failed.”

“I’ll say,” Daphne said in agreement, swiping the image again. The album had reached its oldest image, and went back through the same album, starting with the one taken most recently. “Holy crud, is that your apartment?”

Emanuel tucked his chin to his chest, smiling at the bright flowers that were shown spread over every surface in the picture. Dean had made him so many bouquets, and they lasted so long that the apartment was nothing but flowers in some places.

“Dean gives me flowers,” he said, pretending he didn’t have to pay for them, too. “They bring so much into my life, I didn’t know something as simple as fresh flowers could change so much.”

Daphne nodded, moving back through three more photos of flowers. “There’s a lot of little things in the world that can make a difference.”

Emanuel saw her pause on the next photo, the topless one of himself - he removed the phone from her grasp, slamming his thumb on the power button. The phone vibrated as it shut down, and he clutched it in his hand, feeling the buttons being pressed under his fingers.

“You... Um. It’s like the other one, the one he took for you,” Daphne said, stating the obvious. “You took that for him? Did you send it?”

Emanuel gave a shaky nod, frowning at the dark floor.

“Like I said before, about Dean... there’s not many people our age who can look that good.”

“We’re not that old,” Emanuel repeated.

“I mean it as a compliment, Emanuel. That photo is very... flattering on you. You’re just as handsome as Dean, maybe more so.”

Emanuel chuckled, eyes flitting away to the people who roamed the Conservatory in the distance. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Daphne huffed a breathy laugh, standing up, holding out a hand for Emanuel to take. “I’ll stand by it. You’re an attractive man, Emanuel.”

Emanuel couldn’t meet her eyes as he stood up, hands clenched on his jacket and coat as he held them alongside his flashlight. Daphne pulled her bag onto her arm, and muttered about going to join everyone else.

They walked together in silence, and for the first time, Daphne didn’t try to take hold of Emanuel’s hand or arm. He wondered if he’d ruined everything, but in all actuality, he didn’t need to wonder. He was certain. Everything was over, and despite Daphne’s still-smiling face, and her laughter as she shrieked at the passing flight of another moth, Emanuel was sure he had broken everything.

He tried to fix it, given they would be leaving the Conservatory soon, and he wanted to make it up before the date ended. But even though they talked, Emanuel managed to make it worse. He wanted to show her the most splendid flower he’d seen all night, its white petals spread, yellow stamen being pollinated by a moth. And he called for Daphne, turning around to speak to her.

And what came out of his mouth was, “Dean, look at this.”

Cold chills flipped in his stomach, and he could tell by the look in Daphne’s eyes that she made no mistake as to the name she heard.

But she came over, smiled at what she saw. “Take a picture for Dean, hon. He’d appreciate it.”

Emanuel lowered his gaze, almost feeling like he might cry. All he wanted right now was a hug.

Daphne made a cooing, warbling sound, and Emanuel found himself wrapped in her arms - his breath caught in his surprise, and he froze.

“Emanuel, shh. Just relax. Come on, I’m a mom, I have a hug radar.”

Emanuel lowered his stiff arms, letting Daphne group his limbs together and squish him, her chin on his shoulder.

“Don’t be embarrassed, okay?” she said quietly. “I called my boss ‘Papa’ once. And for all intents and purposes, I’m pretty sure that was worse. I had witnesses and everything.”

Emanuel laughed softly, blinking as Daphne shifted away and sighed at him.

“Come on, I think it’s time to go home,” Daphne said, chucking Emanuel under his chin. “When Juliette’s lip starts wobbling I know it’s bedtime.” Emanuel pressed his lips together, looking away as Daphne led him by the hand back between the humungous planters either side of them.

Emanuel’s flashlight lit their path ahead, and Daphne lit further away, so she knew where they were heading.

“I’ll, um, call Crowley,” Emanuel said eventually, as they neared the entrance. Daphne dropped his hand so he could reach for his phone, turning it back on. His ears still burned, but he felt better. Daphne seemed so accepting of tonight, and all the things he was fucking up. He respected everything about her.

“ _You’ve reached Fergus Crowley, what do you want._ ”

In contrast, Emanuel respected very little about his family’s limousine driver. “I’d like a ride, please.”

“ _So did last night’s lay, but that doesn’t mean I’m in any position to give you the same thing, Montecarlo, no matter how much sex appeal you have._ ”

“The name is _Montmorency_ ,” Emanuel corrected, nostrils flaring as he watched Daphne chat to the German tourists again, hanging around by the entrance. “And I mean I’d like you to drive us home. It’s a long walk.”

“ _And it’s a long drive, too. I’m busy. Try a taxi._ ”

“You haven’t been employed with us long enough to be giving me demands, Crowley,” Emanuel warned. “If you wanted a letter of recommendation upon the termination of your contract, or maybe a discharge with honours, I’m starting to think you might get the opposite.”

“ _Did you know -_ I _used to be a high-roller, like you? I had my own sweet-smelling stacks of money. It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it? People used to drive_ me _around. And now I have to deal with you namby-pamby arseholes. So, do you think I really care about a minor bump-down from the bottom, muffincakes?_ ”

Emanuel raised his eyebrows.

There was a silence, which eventually filled with a crackling sigh down the phone line. “ _Fine,_ ” Crowley said. “ _I’ll be there in ten minutes._ ”

“Thank you.” The call had already ended, and beeped into Emanuel’s ear. He put the phone back into his pocket, mildly annoyed. Crowley’s single month of service seemed less a month of service than a month of pure unadulterated hassle.

Emanuel waited with Daphne in the warmth of the Conservatory, sitting in the surroundings of a floppy green plant, talking and gently poking fun at Crowley, and at Emanuel’s clothes. Daphne notably steered clear of mentioning Emanuel’s coat.

At the edge of the Gardens, Crowley angrily beeped the horn, and Emanuel and Daphne laughed and ran to meet him, the two of them having built a solid basis to laugh at him all the way back to Daphne’s house.

Crowley seemed to squint into the rear-view mirror to watch the two of them more than he watched the road, but somehow, he got them back in once piece.

Emanuel opened the back door and stepped out, offering a hand to help Daphne out. Emanuel only so much as closed the door before Crowley sped off, clearly having better places to be.

Emanuel sighed. “That was my ride home,” he muttered, watching the long glossy shape disappear over the next hill. He worried the hills of San Francisco might graze the lengthy undercarriage, but the chassis moved smoothly, however, getting smaller and smaller as Crowley kept driving away.

“Can I tell you something?” Daphne said, tugging Emanuel closer to the house.

“Hm? Okay,” he said, curious.

Daphne began to climb the stone steps, eyes on Emanuel. “I told him to leave, I mouthed it at him while you were staring out the window. I’ll call you a cab later, if you don’t want to stay the whole night.”

Emanuel gaped, feet slowing as they made it to the door. “I’m... I’m sorry, I’m not sure...?”

“Juliette’s out for the night, I thought maybe you and I should spend some proper time together. It’s all been a bit patchy, all these outside dates. Actually, the first meeting we had here, I did like that. Things have changed since then, I’m sure it won’t be so... robotic.”

Emanuel put his hands into his trenchcoat pockets. Dean said this would happen. This was the part where they ‘made coffee’. In the bedroom. Steamy, steamy coffee.

Daphne put the key into the lock, opening it with her hand resting on the doorframe. She glanced back to Emanuel. “Are you coming in?”

Emanuel took a breath. The he shook his head, somewhat guiltily. “I don’t think I can... I’m not...”

“Still not ready, huh,” Daphne smiled, tilting her head and putting a strand of wavy hair behind her ear. She sighed, mouth closed. “Well, it was worth a shot. I’ll call that cab now - unless you feel up to wrangling Crowley back. God, I’m sorry,” she laughed, a hand over her mouth.

Emanuel shook his head, managing a tiny smile. “I’ll walk.”

Daphne nodded, accepting. “I really hope...” She trailed off, lost for words.

Then she leaned in close, eyes shut, and she made it to within an inch of Emanuel’s lips before she stopped, waiting. Waiting for him.

Emanuel supposed he ought to try it. He should know what it was all going to be like.

He kissed her. Her mouth was tacky from her lipstick, warm, her breath slow over his cheek.

It just felt like... lips. Not like a real kiss, not a whole-body experience.

He pulled back, and their lips smacked. Daphne smiled, then laughed softly, pulling out a handkerchief and putting it to Emanuel’s face.

“Lipstick,” she explained, rubbing his mouth until it felt sore.

She pulled back, and nodded firmly. “Well done.”

Emanuel laughed, scuffing his toes on the welcome mat. “Was that truly kiss worthy of such high praise?”

Daphne leaned in to hug him once more, sighing on his shoulder. “It was a good first kiss.”

Not as good as Dean’s.

They separated, and Daphne was still smiling. “I’ll see you soon. Call me when you want to meet up. This weekend, maybe?”

“Yes, maybe,” Emanuel nodded. “We can do that.”

With her warm gaze resting on his face, Daphne left Emanuel on the doorstep and headed inside. Slowly, she closed the door. “Goodnight, Emanuel,” she offered as her parting words, and Emanuel echoed them, the sound of Daphne’s name ending their night.

Emanuel trotted down the steps, wishing he still had the flashlight the Conservatory guide had given them tonight. The street was dark, despite the pools of lamplight from above.

Taking the staircase down to the brick lane that held Cupid’s Bow, Castiel slowed his walk. This place was no better than a dark alleyway, but he felt far from unsafe here. Dean lived here.

He looked up to the apartment as he walked by, pining for the bravery it would take to march up the stairwell and plant his lips upon Dean’s, making a real connection outside of his dates with Daphne, with no lies.

At the low end of the lane, Castiel crossed the busy main road, wondering if he could see Dean’s panoramic window from the other sidewalk.

He stood outside a closed technology store, the white fluorescent lights from inside acting like moonlight on the back of his shoulders as he turned around, facing the loud road.

A few stories up, he did indeed see the edge of a building, green plants arranged along its edge, lit fairy lights hung in drooping strands at what would be a foot above head-height, if a man were to stand on that flat roof.

The distant sound of music met Castiel’s awareness, but he couldn’t tell if it came from that roof or not. As far as he could detect, it probably did.

Finding his bravery, Castiel fished in his pocket and drew out his phone.

He scrolled his contacts and found Dean’s number, which had been copied down off the card Dean wrote out in the flower shop.

Swallowing, he dialed. It rang three times, then clicked as the call was answered.

“ _Yo._ ”

“Dean?”

“ _Cas? Hey, what’s up? Hey -_ hey! _Gabe, turn that thing down, I can’t hear._ ”

Castiel heard a rattle from the other end of the line, then the sound of music definitely quietened in the street. He also heard laughter, a voice, “ _That your boyfriend?_ ”

Dean sighed, and didn’t answer the question. “ _Sorry, Cas. I’m back now. What’s up?_ ”

“Um. Nothing. I just wanted to call.”

Dean chuckled. “ _Awesome. How did your date go?_ ”

“We kissed.”

“ _Uh-huh. So how many kisses does that make, now?_ ”

Castiel pressed a finger to his free ear, trying to block out the sound of traffic. “Technically just the one. Last time, she only kissed my cheek.”

“ _What, seriously? And all this time I thought Daphne had one up on me. Now you’re telling me I jumped your bones_ before _she did?!_ ”

“I’m... sorry?” Castiel tried, worry building. Was Dean angry?

But Dean laughed, deep and hearty. It made Castiel’s insides tremble, toes curling. “ _Nah. C’mon, it’s not like it’s a big secret that you’re weird about her kissing you, or whatever. Take it slow, it’s all good._ ”

Castiel felt reassured, but still lingered on the thought that Dean didn’t create that same tentativity in Castiel. It was natural for Castiel with Dean, gentle and easy.

“ _So, uh... How was the butterfly thing?_ ”

“Good. I recorded a video for you. Maybe I could send it.”

“ _Not right now, Sam’s got the only phone that can do photos and video, and he’s totally busy watching Youtube videos with Charlie right now. Working hard, yadda yadda, yeah right. Maybe show me tomorrow._ ”

“Okay.” Castiel pulled in a breath. “There’s something else.”

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“Go to the edge of the building, look across the street.”

There was a pause, and Castiel heard Dean’s breath, and a curious hum.

Then Dean’s figure appeared at the top of the building, eyes scouring the road - he saw Castiel, and Castiel actually saw his smile light up his face, despite the distance between them. Dean raised his arm, his laugh carrying down the phone. Castiel laughed too, waving back. Dean chuckled as he lowered his arm again, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

“ _Awesome,_ ” Dean said. “ _Why don’t you come up? Charlie made stir-fry._ ”

Castiel gulped. “I... I would, I’d love to, but I should get home.”

“ _You’re just chickenshit, Cas. Nobody up here bites except me._ ” Castiel heard a breath on Dean’s grin. “ _And the cat._ ”

But Castiel shook his head. “I’ve suffered enough social contact for one day,” he said, quite truthfully. “All I want right now is food, a shower, and a bed.”

“ _You know we... we have those up here..._ ”

Dean sounded so inviting with those words, and oh, did Castiel waver...

“ _You could stay, if you wanted. There’s a bed free, since I’m sleeping on the couch anyway._ ”

Castiel’s hand fisted in his pocket, smoothing over the stitches for comfort. Dean was offering for the two of them to have different sleeping places rather than one, and Castiel wasn’t sure if that meant sex would happen.

“I’m afraid I... can’t,” Castiel said. He swallowed hard. “Some other time, perhaps.”

“ _Yeah. Yeah, all right._ ” Dean swung his feet as he stood there, one hand in his pocket like Castiel had, mirroring him. “ _Hope you have a great night._ ”

“You too,” Castiel said, unsure why the conversation was ending, but finding himself unable to stop it happening. “Sleep well.”

Dean chuckled. “ _I won’t._ ”

Castiel just smiled.

Dean laughed again, spinning on the spot, arm flung to the side. He returned to looking at Castiel, bouncing once on his feet. “ _Go on, Cas, get lost._ ”

“If you insist.”

“ _’Night, Cas._ ”

“Goodnight, Dean. I love you.”

He hung up, and put the phone back in his pocket.

He stood there, smiling at the obviously stunned expression on Dean’s face. His hand was holding his phone halfway between his hip and shoulder, his mouth open.

Maybe that was why Castiel called in the first place, just to say those words.

He turned to walk home, not looking back, not once. He knew Dean was watching him go, though. Anyone would have.

✿

Dean didn’t take his eyes off Castiel’s figure until he was nothing but a confusion of possibly-Cas-but-probably-a-car.

Gabriel snuck up behind Dean, muttering something to Sam as they clinked beer bottles. Then, to Dean, he said, “So what was that about?”

Dean smirked, turning around and flipping his phone in his hand the way he could for a gun, 007 style. “Cas just said he― Um. Four letter word-s me.”

“Fucks.”

“The other one.”

Sam laughed from beside the glass window, coming forward with Charlie beside him. “Loves, is that it?”

Dean nodded, beaming at his phone. “He said it the same way I did. Right before he hung up, like it was by accident. But I don’t think he did it accidentally like I did.”

“Aww,” Charlie said, wrapping her arms around Dean’s shoulders, nudging him in the head with her beer bottle. “He meant it for reals?”

“For reals,” Dean grinned. “Yeah.”

“Is he still dating the fancy chick he was dating the other week?” Gabriel asked, crossing his arms, practically challenging Dean for an answer. “She ‘n him looked like they were getting into some pretty hardcore dating, the night I served them.”

Dean fidgeted, gnawing the inside of his lip. He took the fresh beer Sam offered him, and popped the cap while trying to answer. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, he’s still seeing Daphne.”

“You’re still the other woman, then.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Gabriel’s snark. “It’s not a big deal, all right? Cas and me aren’t dating, nor are we sleeping together. We’re just friends, maybe with some deeper connection or whatever under it all, but man, I am _not_ letting him become a cheater.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Gabriel hissed.

Dean shot him a sharp glare, but softened when he recognised the knowing look in Gabriel’s eye. “What do you look so smug about, huh?” he demanded, adjusting his glasses frames.

Gabriel pursed his lips, leaning his elbow on Sam’s much higher shoulder, forcing him down so Sam was crouching to support Gabriel’s weight.

“You, my friend,” Gabriel said to Dean, “had a little fun-time in your beloved shop of gayness tonight, did you not?”

“Ohhh,” Charlie mouthed, head rolling back as she seemed to put together a puzzle in her mind. “ _That’s_ why you’ve been so happy all evening.” She smiled at Dean, as if all the mystery she saw in his life was solved.

Dean puffed out his cheeks stalked over to the loveseat, plonking himself down and starting to swing as he brooded.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Sam said, over something Gabriel was about to say. “Dean, did you and Cas... do it?”

Dean pulled a face, starting to pick at the label on his beer. “Maybe. But it was like... practise. For Cas, so he knew what to do with Daphne.”

“Unless Daphne has a massive dick somewhere under that skirt of hers, I’m fairly disconcerted by that, Deano.”

Dean met Gabriel’s eye, but felt scrutinised, and looked away again. “You saw us, didn’t you.”

“I’m the reason you have beer in your hand right now, buddy. I went out for supplies, and yeah, I saw you. If you’d been less attached to his mouth you might’ve seen me doing the chicken dance outside the window.”

Dean snorted. He couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed; the things he’d seen Gabriel doing put nothing _he_ could do to shame.

Dean shrugged, slamming his feet to the floor to stop the loveseat rocking. He leaned forward, turning the beer under his thumbs, letting the label pull. He could see the feet of the three people standing around him - Sam’s sensible socks with holes in the toes, Gabriel’s mismatched polka-dot socks, and Charlie’s bare feet, her toenails painted with the triangle symbol thing from _Harry Potter_.

He sighed.

“I really like him,” he said. “And as things are going, I’m pretty sure he likes me back.” But it wasn’t guesswork; he had no doubts. Cas liked him back, end of story. “But, god, he’s so intent on marrying this girl. From what I can tell, he likes her more like a sister or a mom than anything else. It’s so weird that he keeps trying and trying and trying. He’s not up to it.”

“Are you sure you can trust him?” Gabriel said.

Dean looked up in surprise. Gabriel so rarely showed actual insight into serious issues, but maybe since learning about Dean, Sam, Sarah, and Witness Protection, he could be on board for saving their hide at every turn.

Dean laughed. “You’re almost as paranoid as Sarah, and _that_ is saying something.”

“I’m not being paranoid, dickwad,” Gabriel retorted, his hair flopping around his head as he shook it. “You sure he’s not... you know, _lying_ to you? That he’s really who he says he is?”

Charlie chortled. “What the heck are you on about, Gabe? Since when do you care about people lying to Dean? I think I remember you telling him the _cat_ ate his chocolate cake.”

“It’s not a lie if it’s not believable,” Gabriel replied, then turned on Dean again. “I’m being serious here. How easy would it be for some bad guy - you know the kind I mean - to track you down, show up wearing an ugly trenchcoat and perfect baby blues? He’s just your type, am I right?”

Dean opened his mouth to give an angry response, but couldn’t form words. He shut his mouth, admitting to himself that Gabriel had a good point.

But then, he found his words, and it all came out at once. “No, actually. Cas isn’t my type. At all. My type is girls. And when it’s not girls, it’s the guys who hold a gun to my head. I’m fucked up like that, I know that much. I like the ones who can get something outta me. I get off on being used, and boy, is that a hell of a reason to end up being the _only one_ not in jail.”

He stared almost angrily at Gabriel, something fuming under his skin. “Cas is the sweetest fucking guy any of you will ever meet, and he’s smart, but he’s not like that. He’s not here to get something out of me. He’s here ‘cause I begged for something to pull me out of hell, and he showed up. He’s a fucking _angel_. I’m not having you tell me he’s on the wrong side of this. He’s what I need. He’s _all_ I need. I don’t―” Dean stood up sharply, making Gabriel dart back. “I don’t need you. Get outta my face.”

Dean strode for the glass door, seething. He trusted Cas like nobody ever before, and he couldn’t take someone arguing with that. He knew, clear as the night sky above them, that Cas was _not_ a liar. Anything, but not that.

✿

Gabriel sighed slowly, and Sam patted him on the back in sympathy.

“Nice try,” Sam said, as Dean slammed the door to the apartment, heading out. “But what made you think that would work? Actually... what were you even trying to do?”

Gabriel flopped down on the loveseat, letting it swing violently, almost hitting the glass behind him. “When I served ‘ _Castiel_ ’ at the restaurant, he was with his girl, but _he_ sure wasn’t the same guy.”

Charlie made a considerative sound and sat down beside Gabriel, bringing a softness to the rocking, and it began to sway instead. Sam stuck his hands in his pockets, looming over Gabriel and Charlie like a goddamn skyscraper.

“But if Castiel is really seeing both his girlfriend _and_ Dean,” Charlie said, “then he’s bound to want to keep them separate. Alter ego. Batman and Kent.”

Gabriel blew a raspberry. “Batman and Emanuel Montmorency, more like it,” he said, quietly.

Charlie laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“Not kidding.”

Charlie leaned closer, eyes wide. “Dean’s the one who’s seeing the alter ego? He’s got Batman?”

“Well, he’s got a hero, apparently, according to him,” Gabriel said. “But yeah, Castiel lied. That’s not his real name, it’s Emanuel.”

“Who’s Emanuel?” Sam asked, frowning.

Charlie looked at Sam at the same time Gabriel did. “One of the richest, most powerful heirs in the city,” Charlie said.

Sam’s jaw slid open. “I knew it.”

Gabriel leaned back, arms across the back of the loveseat. “His daddy owns Divine Power Inc. - gas, water and electricity to everyone. Not to mention he has enough property to call a city of its own, and a whole bunch of other fancy things that only rich people have. Disco balls the size of cattle, that sort of thing.”

Sam slowly shut his mouth, shaking his head. “Why would he lie? Why risk being recognised; surely someone would? Or... Dean and me are new, so maybe he knew we wouldn’t recognise him―”

“Not that we’d recognise him either,” Charlie admitted, exchanging a glance with Gabriel. “Nobody sees his face until, like Gabe did the other week, they serve him someplace where you see the name on the cheque book.”

Sam pushed out a long exhale through pursed lips. “How do we tell Dean?”

“He already knows his pretty-boy angel is rich as shit.” Gabriel shrugged, standing up. “And he knows he’s dating a chick that’s not him. So really, all that’s out of place here is the name.”

Sam made a whining noise at the back of his throat.

When Gabriel raised his eyebrows, Sam finally opened his mouth to explain his discomfort. “I hate to be the one to suggest this,” he said, breathily, “but B- Benny would know. He could do a background check.”

Charlie scoffed. “He wouldn’t do that without an actual reason.”

Sam growled up at the sky, clearly pained at his thoughts. “He would. He’d do anything to protect Dean, and if Castiel was up to no good, he’d know, and he’d look into it, warranted or not.”

Sam tutted, then made to add, “You don’t think the guy who came into your restaurant was Castiel, but not Emanuel? A stolen cheque book, identity fraud or something? It’d be pretty neat, if it was. Besides, Cas seemed pretty okay with the idea that Dean does crime.”

“Ooh, crime,” Charlie said.

Sam just sighed. “I guess I should call Benny then―”

“I’ll do it,” Charlie volunteered. “I always wanted to ask someone to run a background check.”

Feeling rather fond of Charlie, Gabriel watched her reach for Sam’s phone.

After dialling, Charlie put the phone to her ear. She looked to Gabriel and mouthed, “It’s ringing.”

The speakerphone made her jump, and she held the phone in her hand in front of her instead as Benny’s voice came from the other end. “ _Sheriff Lafitte. What’s so important it couldn’t wait ‘till mornin’?_ ”

“Could you run a background check?” Charlie said, so enthusiastic that she probably spoke to the bats living in the rafters of the apartment.

“ _Uhhh. Who the hell is this? Sam, I think you need your throat checked._ ”

Sam laughed and leaned down, head over the phone. “Not me, Charlie. We’ve got some, uh, questions we need answering.”

“ _What kinda questions?_ ” Benny said. A tapping noise came from the other end of the line, like a keyboard. The sound was almost lost in the air next to the endless sound of traffic from this roof, but it carried well enough.

“All right, so you remember Castiel?” Sam started, eyes on the plants that decorated the roof. “We have some... doubts. Maybe he’s not who he says he is.”

Gabriel couldn’t help but notice the ease with which Sam spoke to Benny when it was about Dean’s wellbeing. They seemed almost chummy - Benny’s reply came quick and easy, his smile audible in his words.

“ _I already checked him out. He’s clean. No criminal record, no marks anywhere. Hell, I knew the kid when we were both young and stupid, and he was an ass-kissin’ teacher’s pet back then, too. Boring as hell, though. Secretive, like. Ahh, I dunno, seems like he was hiding something, but I’d more blame overprotective parenting than wrongdoing._ ”

Sam let out a breath. Gabriel watched him as he started to pace, small steps.

“Why did you check him out already?” Charlie asked.

“ _Lady, you sound like a marmoset on helium over this connection._ ”

“Sorry.”

Benny’s sigh fuzzed out the speaker for a moment. “ _I looked him up because I saw him in that picture, the one taken in my shop. With Dean and his boy. And I thought, naaaw, that ain’t the same guy. Not the guy I know. But he looked a heck of a lot like him. And he was. Same guy. Emanuel Montmorency._ ”

“Ha!” Gabriel said, triumphant.

“ _I’ve been talking to him a few weeks now,_ ” Benny went on.

“Talking? Talking how?” Sam asked, frowning as he stepped closer.

“ _Uh, on the phone? And at the station, we grab one of those back rooms for a couple hours. It’s real quiet there most days._ ”

Sam’s frown didn’t lift, and Gabriel leaned closer. “The plot thickens,” he whispered to Sam, who sneered at him.

“ _He and me, Emanuel. We got something goin’. Hell knows where we’re heading, but―_ ”

“Whoa!” Charlie shouted, butting into Benny’s explanation. “Are you saying you and Cas - Emanuel, whatever - you’re... together? Dating? _Screwing_?!”

“ _What?!_ ” Benny’s voice almost burst the speakers entirely, the long laugh that followed almost doing the same again. “ _Hell no. Hell. No. Jeepers, lady, you are way out of the ballpark._ ”

“Well you can’t blame me for asking, the way you phrased it. Sounded like you were bumping uglies with someone’s hands cuffed to the jail bars.”

Benny squawked.

“So what is it, what’re you doing with him?” Gabriel asked, hungry for answers. Or maybe just hungry, but he would be satisfied by anything juicy, right about now.

“ _It’s all business, all talk,_ ” Benny said, voice easy again, slow like he’d just sunk back into a leather couch, feet up. “ _He’s a keeper, promise you. Dean ain’t about to find anyone safer, not by a long shot._ ”

Sam made an accepting facial expression, pulling in a breath as he moved away. “Safe sounds good. But that doesn’t explain the name. Castiel. He lied, right?”

Benny laughed again, gently this time. “ _Sure he did. But as far as I see it, he ain’t any worse for it than Dean is._ ”

Gabriel leaned in again. “Meaning Castiel regrets he lied, or that you think Dean lied too?”

“ _Well of course Dean lied, he lives a lying life, and he’s done nothing but live exactly that since he was a bouncing baby in his momma’s arms._ ”

Sam hummed a note of agreement. “But he didn’t choose that.”

“ _Weeell, that’s true._ ”

Sam harrumphed. “Anyway. Thanks for your help, Benny.”

“ _You’re welcome, brother. Anytime._ ”

Gabriel didn’t miss Sam’s smile, just before Charlie hung up.

“That was awesome,” Charlie squeaked, eyes closed, hands clutched by her shoulders in excitement.

Sam gave a long sigh, and met Gabriel’s eye with something very thankful in his gaze. Gabriel just shrugged, smirked, then traipsed back inside. It was his turn to feed the cat, and he figured he’d helped Dean enough for one day; he had definite plans to harvest some cat hair and use it to decorate the couch.


	10. A Bird-of-Paradise By Any Other Name

Dean yawned so widely his jaw began to ache. He blinked a few times, eyes strained by the morning sunlight that draped warm yellow over Cupid’s Bow like a blanket.

Aside from Dean’s exhales, which came slow and tired, the shop was silent - so silent that he could hear phantom buzzing. After half an hour of nothing but the shifting sun for company, he started to wish the buzzing was really an insect, just so he’d have something to deal with.

He never usually got bored. He had his books for company, and most of the time he felt like he was paid to sit and read. But today, Jules Verne just couldn’t hold his interest for all that long.

At least he could breathe more easily in the shop. The apartment was a warzone for Dean’s body, constantly fighting a stuffy nose and itching skin. Lucifer lived up to his name. The cat had only gotten fatter and fatter, and more disrespectful towards Dean’s property than Dean thought was fair, given Lucifer had hijacked his bedroom to use it as a shedding ground.

As far as Dean was concerned he no longer had a room to himself; he had become homeless, even in his own home.

He tried not to think about it.

On the page before him, words floated in a pool of printed letters, some glowing, some steeped in shadows that weren’t there. His eyes unfocused to a point where he was actively aware of the strain, but just couldn’t be bothered adjusting his gaze. So he just stared at nothing, the sight of his frozen hands holding his book open becoming nothing but a blur.

RRRRIIIIING!

Dean jolted, feeling like he’d been forced back too soon. He breathed a little faster, dropping his book to the desk, then slumped out of his stool to reach for the ringing phone instead.

He grunted as he picked up the receiver, its old smooth plastic putting a solid weight into his hand. With fingers pinched to the bridge of his nose under his glasses, he put the mouthpiece to his jaw.

“Cupid’s Bow. We do flowers and stuff. Dean speaking.”

“ _Dean? Oh good, I’ve got the right number,_ ” a female voice said, in a smart but breathy tone. “ _Do you know Emanuel?_ ”

Dean frowned, closing his eyes, feeling worn out by the question before he’d even begun to search for an answer. “Uhhh. Who is this?”

“ _My name is Daphne Allen. I’m a - a close friend of Emanuel’s. I thought I ought to call you before coming down there; I wasn’t sure if it would be okay. I’m just around the corner._ ”

Dean cleared his throat. “I think maybe you have the wrong number, ma’am. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

_Emanuel_. It sounded familiar, but whoever they were, Dean certainly couldn’t class them as a friend.

“ _I see,_ ” Daphne said.

Dean opened his eyes, pulling in a sharp gasp. “Daphne! Oh, shit. Shit, sorry, _sorry_ \- can’t stop swearing, shit. Fuck. Daphne...”

Daphne Allen - as in, Castiel’s girlfriend. But who was Emanuel?

“Goddamn it, I totally didn’t connect your name for a minute,” Dean breathed, shaking his head in shame. _Idiot_.

Daphne laughed, a cooing, soft sound that swooped through the receiver. “ _Don’t worry about it, hon. I should’ve introduced myself right off. I was just a bit nervous, and, um, judging by your outbursts―_ ” she laughed again, “ _I’m not the only one._ ”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckled. “Sorry, you caught me off-guard; got a bad case of pottymouth.” He took a breath, trying desperately to get his thoughts in line. “So, who was the person you wanted to see?”

“ _You, sweetie. I wanted to meet you. Emanuel talks about you so much. I called him a few minutes ago, actually; I told him I have something I wanted to ask you. He told me he’d pass it along, but I’d really rather ask you in person._ ”

“Uh, okay? Yeah, okay. I guess you know where to find me, if you got the number. When?”

“ _I can be down there in fifteen minutes, if that’s okay. I have a work meeting to get to right after, but I won’t take long, it’s just a quick question._ ”

Dean chuckled. “Now you’ve got me nervous.”

“ _Oh, don’t be. Honestly, nothing scary._ ”

Dean tapped his fingers on the desk. “All right, then. Fifteen.”

“ _Good. Thank you so much._ ”

“You’re welcome.”

Daphne made a tiny “ _Hm!_ ” of approval, and then hung up.

Dean put the phone down and stared at the back wall of the shop, a long and distressed note escaping his mouth.

What the _fuck_ just happened? Who the _fuck_ was Emanuel? And why the _fuck_ did Dean _know_ that name?

What was weirder was that Daphne hadn’t even mentioned Cas. Surely that would have cleared up matters in no more than a second, with no need for that horribly awkward splatter of expletives.

Fifteen minutes.

“Shit,” Dean said. He took off his apron, grabbed a scrap of paper from the shelf under the desk, a pen from beside the till, and wrote ‘Back in 5 mins’. Scampering to the door, he hung the paper around the ‘Open’ sign, letting it hang visible to the outside.

With a fast breath, he opened the door stepped through, leaving it unlocked. He didn’t think anyone would bother messing with the till, and he wouldn’t be gone for five whole minutes - he didn’t have _time_ to be gone five minutes.

He slammed open the next door in the street, running up the stairs as he heard the door bounce shut again behind him. He burst into his apartment, clueless of what to do now.

“Gee, what’s up with you?” Gabriel muttered, wiping cookie crumbs off his cheeks. “I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go―”

“I’m not here to use the can, I’m here ‘cause of frickin’ Daphne. She called. Fifteen minutes!”

“Daphne, like your boyfriend’s girlfriend?”

“Yes!” Dean started pacing, boots leaving scuff marks on the bare floorboards. “What the hell am I gonna say to her? You think she’d tell? Do I have ‘I bonked your almost-fiance’ written all over me? Because I feel like I have. God, what the hell. I’m a homewrecker.” He sat down heavily on the couch, hands over his face.

Sam’s socks came into view, and Dean cracked a gap between his fingers to look up at his younger brother.

Sam had that classic look of disapproval on his face, but Dean didn’t miss the doe-eyed ‘I want to help’ in the expression, either.

Dean sighed, curling over his thighs. “I really, _really_ like Cas. If she knows what me ‘n Cas did, and she asks me to back off, what then? I can show some restraint around him, sure, I’m good at restraint - Sam, shut up - but I’m pretty sure if I keep on seeing Cas, I’m gonna keep... falling at him. I can’t stop feeling awesome when he’s there, you know? I don’t want to lose him.” He looked up at Sam, surprised to find his vision was swimming in unspilt tears. “Sammy, I can’t lose him.”

“Did she say what she wanted?” Sam asked, calmly moving to sit beside Dean, their knees pushed together. “Did she seem angry?”

“No, not exactly,” Dean muttered. “She wants to ask me somethin’.”

“Then answer her questions. Be honest, like the mature, responsible adult that you are. Just... ‘fess up. She might work like a U.S. court, you never know; she might let you cut a deal, figuratively. You’d get off easy if you tell the truth.”

“Ain’t that always the way,” Dean sighed.

Gabriel sat on Dean’s other side, and put a handful of Cheerios under his nose. Dean shoved the hand away. “Not exactly in a Cheerio mood right now, Gabe.”

“More for me, then.”

Dean heard the Cheerios meeting their doom between Gabriel’s teeth.

“Look,” Sam said, squeezing Dean’s shoulder with his massive hand, “What you and Cas did was consensual. You’re not the only one at fault. People don’t get to stake a claim on someone just like that; he doesn’t belong to Daphne. If Cas likes you and you like him, and _he_ likes Daphne, then it’s all on him. As far as I see it, the only person she needs to have words with is Castiel.”

Dean ran his hand under his glasses frames, feeling his eyes start to water again, which he would happily blame on cat allergies rather than emotion. “I’m not exactly innocent,” he said. “I wanted Cas, so I went for it. It’s not like I didn’t _know_ Daphne had him first. Christ.”

“Dean. Cas chose you last night. All right, maybe you can’t keep it in your pants, but Cas is not faultless. What’s the point of - what’s her name? Daphne? - going after you, if she could wail on him first?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “She said she already talked to him. Well, actually, she said she talked to someone named Emanuel, but she meant Cas. Must be some sorta nickn― Oh!” Dean flopped back on the couch, staring at the high wooden ceiling. “Missouri said it. That’s what she called Cas that one time. By mistake, she said, but...”

He stood up, starting to pace again, one hand fisted on the corner of his flannel shirt. “She must’ve known him someplace else. Like online or something, he’d have a different name for that.”

Sam didn’t say a word against the theory, despite how weak it seemed, even to Dean.

Dean growled, stood still and ran a hand down his cheek, fingers scraping like claws in his agitation.

“Forget it, I’ll get answers soon enough,” he sighed, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. All the fight sank to his feet, and he walked for the door, flipping the collar of his shirt upright so he looked tougher. Daphne was just one lady with a posh accent, he could take her questions, easy.

“See you on the other side,” he said in farewell, and shut the door, heading down the stairs. Mystery awaited him, and for every step he took back to the shop, he wished dearly that everything would go just fine.

✿

“Phone. Now,” Gabriel said, holding his hand out.

“Your hands are sticky,” Sam complained, but gave Gabriel the phone anyway.

Gabriel wasted no time finding Castiel’s number, hitting dial before he even registered the addition of ‘Emanuel Montmorency’ after the initial label.

Sam stared at Gabriel with puppy eyes, wide and hazelly and barely blinking at all.

The phone clicked, and a grunt of “ _Hello?_ ” met Gabriel’s ear.

“It’s Gabriel. Where are you?”

“ _Gabriel? Is Dean okay?_ ”

“What? Yeah, he’s fine. Where are you?”

“ _I’m in San Francisco._ ”

Gabriel coughed. “I’m not kidding around this time, dipshit. I need specifics. How long until you can get to the shop?”

“ _I’m eight to ten minutes away. I’m walking―_ ” A blaring car horn startled the breath out of Castiel, and he was silent for a few seconds, a bumbling sound taking up the space of his voice instead. Finally, “ _Walking faster. Why?_ ”

“Daphne is en route to Cupid’s Bow.”

Castiel took all of three seconds to process the problems with this. And then he listed them aloud. “ _Dean will think I lied to him about who I am this whole time! Which I did, but I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to...! Oh no. Oh, no no no. She’ll know about me being ‘Castiel’. And she’ll know what I - oh no - what I did with Dean. This is bad, this is very, very... bad._ ”

Gabriel nodded, eyes rolled to the ceiling, since none of it was news to him.

“ _I will - Ah! Hhhh! Hhhh! - I’ll be there in six minutes. Hhhh... hhhh...!_ ”

“Enjoy your workout,” Gabriel said, then ended the call.

“What did he say?” Sam asked immediately.

“That he’s a lying, cheating douchewad, but don’t worry, he _didn’t mean to_.”

Sam donned an uncomfortable facial expression, then sighed, and dragged his feet towards his bedroom to get back to his law books. “Boy, is someone about to get hurt. Let me know if anyone needs an ambulance.”

✿

Dean was nothing less than startled when Castiel exploded into the shop, his dark hair a mess, his eyes sharp and fast as they scouted the flowers, then turned on Dean. He was out of breath.

“Where’s the fire?” Dean asked, lips quirking upward at the corners. He liked seeing Cas all riled up, but underneath, he felt about as unsettled as Castiel looked.

“Here, I thought she’d be here,” Castiel muttered, swallowing down a breathy exhale. “She’s not here yet?”

“Did she tell you she was dropping by?”

Castiel shook his head. “Not her. Someone else.” He wheezed, then leaned forward over the floor, head going so low that Dean had to lean over the desk to see him.

“Guess she’s on her way,” Dean sighed, turning around to glance out of the window. The street was empty, the coffee shop opposite gleaming in rebounding sunlight.

He swept around to look back at Castiel, who leaned on the desk with both elbows, one hand raised to brush his hair off his forehead.

“So, since you’re here, I gotta ask,” Dean said, kicking his feet against his stool nervously, “what do we tell her? What do we _not_ tell her?”

“She can’t know. Not about what we did, what happened between us.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Dean agreed. Screw being honest with Daphne, the last thing he wanted was for his time with Castiel to be tainted with more guilt than there already was. “I mean, you and me was just a one-time thing, though, so―”

“Was it?”

Dean looked carefully into Castiel’s scrutinising eyes, both of them simultaneously trying to define their relationship without the use of words.

Dean swallowed hard, and Castiel lowered his gaze.

“Given the chance,” Castiel said, quietly, “I would kiss you again.”

“Me too.” Dean felt a tugging inside him, an ache that he wanted Castiel’s hands to soothe. “And more than that. More than kissing.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s stomach settled tight in his nervousness, but that discomfort was undoubtedly eased by Castiel’s mutual want. It felt good to know that Cas wanted it as much as he did. He loved him back, as crazy as that was.

“Why her, Cas?” Dean asked, unable to look up from the desk. “Why keep dating her, if that isn’t - if _she_ isn’t―”

“―If she isn’t what I want?” Castiel finished. Dean met his steely gaze. “She is what I want, Dean. She’s _who_ I want.”

“Then why me?”

Castiel looked away, lips pressed together. “I don’t know.”

“You know how this ends, Cas. Love triangles always end with the guy in the middle picking one person. I don’t want to tell you to do that, but... I just don’t want her to get upset.”

Ha, if only that were the reason. Dean didn’t want to share, and he knew it perfectly well.

“Why must I choose,” Castiel intoned, so lowly that Dean wondered if he was even speaking to him at all. “Why must people be monogamous, why not enjoy two separate things with two different people?” His voice raised to a normal volume, and he looked Dean in his eye as he went on, “I need to marry Daphne. But Dean, I don’t _want_ that to mean the end of whatever it is you and I have, what we shared last night.”

Dean sat down on his stool, hands clasped on the desk in front of him. “You want to screw behind her back, is that it?”

He burned hot at the words. They’d never acknowledged that they had, in fact, screwed. It had been a secret even between themselves; just something that happened, once. Last evening they’d shared kisses, so many perfect kisses, but then Castiel had gone to Daphne rather than staying with Dean.

Castiel looked so pained, his eyes crinkled in a way Dean had never seen them, not the way he did when he smiled or got confused.

He turned away, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Dean, I want to show you something,” he said, almost a whisper.

“All right.”

Swallowing again, Castiel moved his hand to pull out his cellphone. Dean stayed still and silent as Castiel pressed buttons, making the phone beep a few times. With a soft exhale, Castiel passed the phone over the desk, setting it in Dean’s hands, still warm from Castiel’s palm.

“The video I recorded for you last night,” Castiel explained, as Dean looked up at him. “Please.” He gestured to the phone, and Dean complied with the gesture, looking to the screen and hitting play.

A dark rectangle filled the screen, random shaky lights moving about the edges, showing up a speck of green here and there. The audio was crackly, and crumpled a few times, but then the view became Castiel’s face, eyes colourless from the low light, skin flickering with what looked like flashlight beams.

“ _Hello, Dean... Daphne is over there, I have a minute,_ ” said the recorded Castiel, and Dean glanced up, offering the here-and-now Castiel a smile. Castiel smiled shyly back, but seemed to be holding his tongue, words left unsaid beyond his firmly closed mouth.

“ _The Conservatory is beautiful, as you already know._ ” In the video, Castiel looked around himself, the camera shaking a little in his unsteady hands. A small smile rested on his lips, curving their usually-flat line. “ _It’s... warm. Warm like a rainforest, it almost feels like it just rained._ ” He smiled wider now, eyes wandering as he recollected the same place Dean sat now: “ _Your shop is always so cool, but here it feels like... I don’t know, it’s like I’m breathing underwater._ ”

Dean smirked to himself, locking his ankles over one another as he got comfortable.

Castiel’s video directing was shoddy, but as the camera panned the surrounding area, he got the point across: the Conservatory of Flowers was magnificent, even in the dark.

A burbling pond of lilypads was lit up by shimmering lights, flickers on its surface that Dean remembered was caused by the turtles and fish who lived there.

Distant voices were audible in the video, too - there could have been a dozen people there, which surprised Dean: Castiel hadn’t made his date a private booking, despite having the money to do so.

The camera settled back on Castiel’s face, and Dean laughed as a moth flew into the lens, making the video image flicker with blurs.

He glanced up, but Castiel was now lingering on the other side of the shop, hands exploring the buckets of tulips. While listening to the recording, Dean watched the man in before him. Gracefully he moved, but he was tense all over. Listening to Dean as he listened.

“ _...I think I told you last week: I’m afraid of heights._ ”

“Afraid of falling,” Dean said aloud, so Cas could hear him.

✿

Castiel smiled into a tulip. If what Dean muttered to him was true, he no longer had anything left to be afraid of.

Castiel could hear his recorded voice, and he hated hearing it. It sounded too grumpy, like he was irritable, when he knew for a fact that when he’d made the video, he’d felt nothing but longing. He wanted Dean’s company so very badly.

The problem here was not that he couldn’t choose. No matter what Dean thought his feelings towards Daphne were, truth was proving him to feel nothing but lukewarm towards her. It had been that way since the start.

It wasn’t a simple case of breaking it off with Daphne. There was too much pressure to keep going, keep building to a climax that he already saw as doomed. He’d never be able to explain any of this to his father.

Castiel heard himself from across the room, his voice small; “ _You’d know the scientific names of all the orchids. I know you would._ ”

Dean shifted on his stool, but he didn’t say anything.

Castiel could hear the clock. Counting down the minutes, maybe the seconds, until Daphne showed her face and changed everything.

Castiel wasn’t brave enough to say what he’d been meaning to say for weeks. It had become so comfortable for him, living as Emanuel every day, then transforming into Castiel when he met with Dean. Recently it had felt less like change, and more like coming home. He’d never felt more secure in his skin than he did when Dean touched him. And every moment he spent with him, he felt touched.

“ _...I wish you were here._ ”

Castiel closed his eyes. He suffered a deep, deep dissatisfaction, hearing himself say those words. Because they were true, because he wanted Dean with him all the time. He wanted to be Castiel, and he wanted to be with Dean. He wanted _that_ for his future, not a child, not endless business deals, not the inheritance that would tear his pockets a hundred thousand times over.

What he wanted could be simple; it _was_ simple. All he had to do was reach for it and take it.

But he had grown up being given things. Given everything.

He didn’t know how to _take_.

“Cas?” Dean said, softly.

Castiel turned his face, watching Dean approach him with some trepidation in his steps, phone held in both hands, fiddling with it at his middle. He handed the phone over; Castiel took it. Dean breathed once, eyes gentle around the edges as he looked at Castiel.

“Cas...” Dean licked his lips, “Last night. When you were with Daphne.”

Castiel nodded.

“You were thinking about me?”

“All the time.” Castiel closed his eyes, frowning, so not a single display of emotion would threaten to fill his eyes. “Dean, every moment, I―”

His breath caught as he felt warmth on his lips; he opened his eyes, and saw Dean’s face close to his own, eyes partially open, gaze resting on his mouth.

Castiel leaned in, craving―

The bell to the shop clinged, and Dean shot back, spinning on the spot as he schooled a smile onto his face. “Hey!” he said, cheerfully. More cheerfully than could possibly be honest.

“You must be Dean,” Daphne said, striding the few steps across the tiles that took her to meet Dean’s hand with her own. They shook, then Daphne’s eyes turned to Castiel.

He panicked. Was he Emanuel or Castiel? Who was he meant to love at this moment?

“I didn’t realise you’d be here, hon,” Daphne said, smiling brightly at Emanuel. “Were you here when I called?”

Emanuel shook his head.

“Nah, it was just me.” Dean chuckled, an undertone of nervousness that Castiel caught but Daphne probably didn’t. “Um, can I offer you a seat?”

Dean grabbed the stools and set them beside the front desk, letting their feet clatter horribly.

“Thank you,” Daphne said. She sat primly with her knees together, her dark pencil skirt showing off her slim legs. She looked from Emanuel to Dean, who withered on his feet, and sat on his own stool. Castiel put his hands into his pockets, stroking the lumpen stitches.

“What was it you wanted to ask?” Dean said to Daphne, wiping his hands on his thighs.

“Well, I asked Emanuel, and he said you’re seeing someone. I thought maybe - it’s a bit odd, I admit, but - you maybe might like to join the two of us on a date. We’re heading out tomorrow, aren’t we?” Daphne looked over at Emanuel for confirmation, and without meeting Dean’s narrowing eyes, he nodded.

“I’m... I’m seeing someone...” Dean repeated, thankfully covering his questioning tone. He rubbed his hands on his thighs again, and Castiel could feel Dean’s gaze set directly on his head, practically scalding him. “Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, I’m... I’m dating somebody.”

“She must be wonderful; I’d love to meet her. And I’d love to get to know you, too, which is really the main reason I came in today. Here’s my card, you just call me or Emanuel and let us know what you decide.” She stood up, and Emanuel glanced at her quickly, sensing she was about to depart. “I’ll leave Emanuel to talk, I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”

She patted the sides of her suit jacket down, and looked at Dean’s dumbfounded expression, smiling at him. “You have a very lovely shop, Dean. If I had more time today I’d buy something. But in the meantime...” She took a step for the exit, her heel tapping on the tile. “I’ll drop by again, get something special.”

“Uh, yeah, that’d be great,” Dean muttered, standing up, shoving his glasses further up his nose. “See you around.”

“Have a good day!” Daphne waved to Emanuel as she left the shop, letting the bell clink behind her.

Castiel breathed out slowly as he watched her walk away, the slope of the street making her look shorter as she passed the window. As soon as she was out of sight, Castiel shut his eyes tight, expecting Dean’s outburst.

“Emanuel,” Dean said, quite calmly.

Castiel opened his eyes again, looking across the shop, watching Dean put his hands into the pockets of his jeans and lean his rear against the side of the front desk.

“She called you Emanuel,” Dean said, more pointedly this time; a prompt.

“Yes.” Castiel looked at the tulips. “Yes, that’s my name.”

“So who’s Castiel?”

“Me.” Castiel tipped his chin to his sternum, sighing. “Castiel is me. I’m also known as Emanuel James Montmorency, and I―” He raised his chin into the air, staring at the beams of the ceiling as he exhaled. “I’ll be the sole inheritor of Divine Power Inc.. My father is the CEO. Currently I hold more shares in the company than I would ever care to detail.”

Dean made a small undefined sound. “As in, the Divine Power that keeps my oven running and my showers hot. That Divine Power?”

“Yes.”

Something rattled; Castiel glanced over to see Dean sit down firmly on his stool, hunched over his parted thighs, hands held between them. He was looking up at Castiel with a cold stare, his glasses doing nothing to dull the fierceness of it.

“Emanuel,” Dean said, for the third time. It shaped strangely on his mouth, a stranger’s name to him. “You gave me a fake name.”

Castiel pulled in a breath, walking to Dean’s side, pulling out the second stool. He sat a few feet away, mirroring Dean’s position, forearms resting on his thighs, torso tipped forward.

“I gave you _my_ name,” Castiel said, firmly. “It’s not my legal name, but it is mine, nonetheless. When you initially asked my name, I said ‘Castiel’ instinctively, and I... never sought to correct it, afterwards.”

Dean sucked on his lower lip, then let it free. “You lied to me.”

“Do you remember me saying that if I told you, it would ruin everything?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel nodded. “I wanted to tell you. But I had become this _person_ ,” he gestured to himself with a hand, “and I love being this person, Dean.” He leaned closer to Dean, head tilted a few inches. “I love being this man. I feel human for once.”

“And what were you before?” Dean scoffed, not a smile in sight.

“Nothing. I was nothing. A machine, an empty vessel. I don’t know. Everything I wanted I denied myself, and only... only now... have I let myself...”

“What, Cas? Let yourself take what you want?”

“Yes,” Castiel breathed.

“Then why,” Dean said, slowly, “won’t you _take_ it?”

Castiel swallowed. Then he swallowed again, lowering his gaze to the floor, seeing the scuffed toes of Dean’s boots.

Castiel was a man of contradiction.

He shook his head, finding himself unable to answer. He had never taken any real risks in his life, and like everything else he was unable to do, he didn’t know how to take a risk now.

“Are you mad at me, Dean?”

Dean breathed out sharply, then stood up.

Castiel cupped a hand over his eyes, wanting to shut out the total awareness of the distance Dean was putting between them, walking away, around the desk, allowing the giant block of wood to act as a barrier.

Castiel just sat, simmering in his own foolishness.

Then Dean took a breath, and quietly he said, “Yeah. Yeah, Cas, I am mad at you.”

Castiel stayed silent.

“I think you should leave.”

Castiel stood up, eyes on the tiles. On his feet. On the pool of sunlight he stepped into, heading for the door.

“Cas,” Dean said.

Castiel waited, eyes rising halfway to Dean, but no further.

“I, um, I don’t know if I’ll be going tomorrow. On your double date or whatever. Because I’m not dating anyone, unlike what you said to Daphne. That other lie you told her.”

Castiel pressed his tongue in his mouth, tasting sourness.

He opened the door, watching the bell dance to its own music, then settle as he stood there, unmoving.

He looked back to Dean, who was not moving either, nor looking at anything in particular.

Quickly, Castiel turned away from the door, marching to the middle of the room. He carefully examined the way Dean stared, and determined he would be allowed a few moments’ grace. “Dean, what’s your favourite flower?”

Dean frowned. “What?” He shook his head, frowning confusedly. “Uhh, birds-of-paradise.”

Castiel went straight for the black bucket that held the birds-of-paradise. The flowers were sharp and asymmetrical, their petals firm and spread like playing cards in a hand. Bold, the same way Dean’s flower crown had been. Castiel pried up the prettiest of the flowers, its thick stem smooth and cool under his thumb.

He carried it to Dean, pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket, not bothering to check how much he was offering. “Here,” he said, pushing the money closer to Dean.

Dean put his hand on the money, flattening it to the desk. “Great.” His voice came hollow, almost broken, as he added, “I’m sure Daphne will love it.”

Castiel breathed out, seeing the way Dean’s mouth was shaking at the corners, undeniably saddened.

“This flower is not for Daphne,” he said.

He lifted it over the desk, turned it on its side, and laid it down between them, a brown line and an orange bloom separating them.

Not expecting a word from Dean, Castiel moved towards the exit once more. But he stopped just as the bell sang its notes again; he had one last thing to impart.

“Dean. I want you to know... I feel more myself as Castiel than I ever have as Emanuel. If anything... the other life is the lie. Not this one.”

Dean met his eye, and Castiel managed a sad smile. But Dean looked ruined, something destroyed in him that Castiel knew for certain he’d single-handedly broken.

Castiel couldn’t look at that.

He left the shop, hearing the bell bid him farewell through the glass door as it shut. He didn’t take a moment to reflect, only walked onwards.

And he didn’t look back, because if he was forbidden to return, then he may as well begin that regiment now.

It hurt.

✿

“No! No, I don’t want to go!” Dean shouted, not caring that Sarah had done absolutely nothing to deserve being shouted at. "I don’t want to see him, he’s _exactly_ like every other guy. I see it, now! I see what you women are always on about - men, they’re always the same.”

Sarah blew hair out of her face, her gaze settled on Dean, unimpressed. He stopped pacing just to watch her sit down.

“Sit with me, Dean,” she said, patting the red suede of the couch.

Dean’s resolve was too frayed to fight her. He thumped himself into the couch cushion, arms spread over the back, hands balled in fists.

Sarah allowed him the moment he needed to collect himself once his sneezing fit ended.

He wheezed, then groaned.

“Now,” Sarah said, pulling her long dark hair around one shoulder, face towards Dean. “Who is this man, and what exactly did he do to you? Tell me everything I don’t already know.”

Dean blew a spittle spray into the air, then winced and swiped his face with the inside of his sleeve. He sat up straight, sighed, and accepted the beer Charlie offered him.

“He came into my shop a few weeks back. Wanted flowers.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And,” Dean dragged in a deep breath, “he annoyed the heck out of me. But he was nice even so, and I dunno, I changed my mind about him just as he was leaving. He didn’t smile at first, but he...” Dean couldn’t resist the smile that lifted his own lips. “Man. He learned to. He kind of learned how to be happy.”

He looked out of the window, watching a light evening rainfall dribble winding rivers down the glass, each droplet shining with light from inside, where they currently sat.

“For ages, I thought it was Daphne making him so happy. But after a while I kinda... added it up. He never enjoyed talking about Daphne, the same way he avoided talking about his dad. And then every time... every time I looked at him, he’d smile. Proper happy smiles, you know?”

Dean sighed slowly, taking his first sip of beer, letting the tang spread over his tongue before he swallowed. “He had the biggest damn crush on me. I had it bad, too; even Benny knew about it from, like, the second day I knew Cas.”

Dean stared at his beer bottle, then moved to set it down on the coffee table in front of his knees.

He picked up the flower instead, the long stem of the bird-of-paradise slipping smoothly in his hand until he cupped the bloom at the head. Its orange was vibrant, and just by looking at it, he felt the warmth that being in Castiel’s company brought him.

“I didn’t think he was a liar,” Dean said, staring at the flower.

Charlie handed Sarah a cup of tea, then went to sit on Dean’s other side with a mug of her own. “You knew he was dating Daphne. He didn’t lie about that to you. I mean, okay, he’s giving Daphne a selective truth, but―”

“No, he lied. He lied a lot,” Dean said, putting down the flower before he damaged it with his clutching hand. “He told me his name was Castiel. It’s not Castiel. It’s Emanuel James somethin’, and he’s like this uppity rich bastard, way out of my league. Goddamn it.”

Waving a hand in annoyance, Dean went on, “We got to know each other, and I thought he was some... quiet nerdy type. Goes to church, says his prayers - whatever, I didn’t care. I just wanted a guy who was exactly what it said on the cover. And now it turns out he’s putting lie over lie, just like every man I ever―”

“Those men, Dean, _they_ were what it said on the cover,” Sarah interrupted, her stern eyes locking with Dean’s. “They carried guns, they shot first and asked questions later. You fell in with one of them and you knew - you _knew_ you would get hurt. I’m sorry, Dean, but the man you’re talking about now, he’s not that. His family name is well known around here, according to Charlie―” Charlie nodded, “and he can’t hide from it. He wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone badly without it becoming public knowledge.”

Dean grunted. “So what.”

“So,” Sarah said, “If he made up a name...”

Dean nodded, eyes on his abandoned beer.

“Then he made it up because he wanted a new life. Shelter and refuge. A new name can provide that, and much more; I’m sure you get that.”

Dean closed his eyes, feeling his bones sinking into his own self. Sarah had hit home; Dean knew exactly how precious a new name could be. A new name was everything to a man who needed escape. It could be freedom to Cas, the same way it was to Dean.

“My advice?”

Dean looked at Sarah through one eye, not ready to open his eyes completely.

Sarah smiled. “Give him a second chance. He likes you, you like him. People lie, people move on. If he’s really that special to you, then he deserves some of your faith. But, one thing: don’t want him just because he’s not the _worst_ you could do. Don’t let him get away with it, either. If he lies, don’t let him lie again.”

Charlie hummed into her tea. “And don’t you go lying to him, either.”

Dean folded his arms and grumbled, leaning against the backrest of the couch. “Still doesn’t solve the problem.”

“Which is what?”

“First, he’s dating Daphne and not me.”

Sarah put down her tea, and turned fully to Dean. He dreaded what she was about to say, but let her take his hand in her own, squeezing it. “Ease off. Let him go without you for a while. It’s clearly overwhelming him, having two people head-over-heels for him.”

Dean smirked. Cas’ personality kind of begged for the attention without even realising it; he was ridiculously sweet, sometimes. The flower resting on the coffee table spoke as much.

Dean swallowed, and nodded. Ease off. He could do that. Restraint was a virtue as much as patience ever was.

“And what was the other problem?”

Dean bit his lip, staring out at the rain again. “I need a date for tomorrow.”

Charlie spluttered, and Dean turned to her in time to see her press a finger to the end of her nose. “Not me. I’m not becoming part of your stupid _Twilight_ -y love triangle.”

Sarah hummed in thought. “Would you rather take a man or a woman? Because Gabri―”

Dean guffawed. “Hell, like I’d ever touch that guy in any way that wasn’t my knuckles in his face. He’s constantly sticky, he’s like an overgrown five-year-old. I am _not_ playing lovey-dovey with him. Besides, he’ll be working tomorrow evening.”

Sarah quietly acceded those points.

Dean took a breath and picked up his beer, then added, “Cas told Daphne I was seeing someone. I think probably he said that because he didn’t want her to know I’m single. And doesn’t want to even suggest I might be into dudes. He’s just throwing her off the scent. He’s good little fibber like that.”

Even Dean couldn’t deny the bitterness in his tone; Sarah snarled at him for it, but he shrugged it off.

He hoped time would let him forgive Cas. He didn’t like this grudge. Grudges were for bigger crimes, bigger hurts than using a fake ID. Dean had done worse, he shouldn’t be one to talk.

He downed a long sip of beer, pursing his lips as they stung after contact with the lip of the bottle. “I gotta take a girl,” he said, at last. He swayed his head towards Sarah, lifted his gaze to meet her eye, pleading. “Some girl who, say, a Wesson could be seen with believably. You know anyone who, uh, fits that description?”

Sarah muttered, thinking, then she looked around herself before dipping her fingers into the pocket of her top. She withdrew her middle finger, stuck firmly and offensively in Dean’s face, a snarky smile on her lips.

Dean chuckled and went back to nursing his beer.

✿

“Cas?”

“ _Dean!_ ”

Dean smiled into his phone, wishing he could quell the burst of floral passion that bloomed in his whole body, just in reaction to the way Castiel said his name. “Hey, Cas.”

“ _I... I didn’t think you would call._ ”

“I said I would, did I not?” Dean said. It felt like a reflection of the first time they met; he hadn’t thought Cas would come back to the shop, but he did. He felt this way then, too: glad, relieved. Soft and melted inside, wanting to reach closer.

“ _You didn’t, actually. Are you calling to reiterate that point?_ ”

“What, just rub your face in it?” Dean snuffled, shaking his head. “Nah. I’m calling ‘cause I wanted to say I am coming tomorrow.”

“ _You are?!_ ” Castiel seemed suddenly very breathless, a soft squeak following his words. “ _Oh, Dean. Oh, I’m so glad, I was certain you―_ ”

“Whoa, not jumping the gun just yet, buddy. I’m still mad at you.”

“ _Oh._ ”

Dean felt like twisting the butter knife. “I’m pretty pissed, Cas. I don’t really feel like talking about this right now - maybe ever - but I’m only going along tomorrow because I don’t wanna let Daphne down.”

“ _Yes, quite. That’s important._ ”

“Important. Sure.”

“ _I’d be glad not to... disappoint anyone again._ ”

Dean glanced to the kitchen, where Sarah and Charlie shared the washing up. He’d join them in a moment, but right now, he was alone with Cas’ voice. He sighed, wishing the tiny, tiny kiss he pressed to his cellphone would reach Cas’ lips somehow. “Disappointment’s part of life, Cas,” he said, softly. “We can’t please everyone all at once.”

“ _I do try._ ”

Dean grinned, rumpling his sock under his toe. “I know you do.”

Castiel sighed, tired, maybe more from life than the day alone. “ _Thank you for calling me, Dean. I’ll text you the details of where we’re going when Daphne passes them along. In the meantime, I hope you have a good night._ ”

Despite the knowledge that he would be practically breathing through a straw all night, tossing and turning with flashbacks of liars, liars, liars... Dean said, “I will. You too.”

Castiel made a smiley noise. “ _Goodnight, Dean._ ”

Dean wondered if Cas would say the words again. He wondered if _he_ would say them.

But Dean never got to bid Castiel goodnight, nor spill out yet another love confession. The call ended, and the phone bleeped morosely. Cas had ended the call before either of them had to choose.

Dean only hoped that wasn’t foreshadowing for something still to come.

He pocketed his cellphone.

If he’d been given the chance, maybe Dean wouldn’t have said it. Whatever he felt for Cas, he couldn’t tell him he loved him every time. The times he did, he had to mean it totally, completely. Not tonight.


	11. Double Date

Dean came out of his bedroom, nose wrinkled in irritation at the constant tickling the cat hair was causing him. His hands skimmed over his suit sleeves, pushing out non-existent creases. “This thing still fits,” he said, directing his words at Sarah.

Sarah looked up from where she sat on the couch, setting down her magazine. “You do know there’s still an hour until we have to leave, don’t you?”

“Chuh,” Dean said, turning around, arms out. Sarah gave a hum of approval, and Dean relaxed. “I feel like one of the Blues Brothers.”

Sam chuckled from the kitchen, and wandered forward with a tea towel slung over his shoulder. “You look like a seventh grader at his first dance.”

Dean scowled at him, and looked down at himself. “Man, I hate this thing.”

Sarah stood up and walked bare-footed towards Dean. “You look fine, Dean.” She reached a hand out to adjust his shirt cuffs, which showed an acceptable amount from under each black suit sleeve. “Anyway, I thought you liked suits.”

“Yeah, I do, but not this one.” Dean sighed. “Last time I wore this we headed out to Kansas for the murder trial.”

Sam sighed, then flicked the tea towel so it hit Dean on the back. “You do look good. Nobody else knows it’s your only suit, right?”

Dean snorted softly, fiddling with his tie around his throat. Sarah tutted at him and forced his fingers away, doing the fussing herself.

She stepped back after a few moments, and crossed her arms, scrutinising Dean’s appearance. He trusted her to let him know if something was amiss; he always took criticism well when it came from her.

Sarah made that tiny rumbling sound at the back of her throat that let Dean know she’d found something to complain about; her eyes flicked up to his, and he shrugged, waiting for her to speak.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Dean, but,” her eyes crinkled at the sides, “you need to wear underwear tonight.”

Dean pushed his lips together, ignoring Sam’s yelp of laughter. He waited until Sam had padded away back to the kitchen, before he swayed on his feet, and looked straight at Sarah.

He smiled, feeling a flicker of excitement at the mere prospect of _special occasion_ underwear. “Red is my lucky colour,” he said, quietly.

Sarah smirked back, and turned away, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

Dean slunk to his room, and with no care given to the mass of Lucifer, who was heaving his breaths as he lay in the middle of Dean’s bed, he went through his collection of lacy lingerie, beaming the whole time.

✿

They took a taxi to the restaurant, and Sarah paid the driver with cash once they were dropped off on the sidewalk. The evening sun dazzled across the cars on the road, dust spread low. The sounds of people’s laughter and voices carried from far away, on a breeze so light that it barely existed at all.

Dean straightened his suit jacket for the hundredth time, listening patiently to Sarah’s complaint that he’d been distracted enough to leave his own wallet at home.

“Not my fault,” Dean said, staring at the furniture store across the road, watching its two employees step out into the street together, talking as they shut up shop for the day. “I had my mind on other things.”

“Mm-hm,” Sarah said.

She tucked the remainder of the cash back into her wallet, and then turned towards the restaurant. It stood massive before them, the rich yellow lights incandescent from inside. The place’s ambience seemed warm through the black-shuttered windows, which were pulled back to let the sound of live music escape, along with the mouth-watering scent of pasta.

“I’d never be able to afford this, even _with_ my wallet,” Dean muttered.

“Shush you. Don’t go talking about how broke you are compared to Cas and Daphne, okay? No talk of finances, period.”

Dean waited as Sarah closed her purse, then looked back at him.

“Wedding ring,” Dean reminded her.

Sarah sighed, turning her face down to admire the silver band that rested perfectly on her ring finger. Dainty yet hard-wearing, just like Sarah herself. Dean always knew Sam had good taste, but that was the sort of compliment he rarely gave out loud.

With another sigh, Sarah wriggled the ring off her finger. “May Sam forgive me,” she said, dramatically, eyes flicking to the sky upon a breathy smile.

Dean clutched her hand, curling the ring into her palm. “Just don’t lose it. It’s not for long, I promise.”

Sarah nodded, and tucked the ring into her bra. Dean looked away so he didn’t see anything, but was left to consider how that was quite a handy place to have a pocket.

“Now,” Sarah said, offering Dean an upturned hand, her pale skin glowing with the sunset. Dean took her hand and held it. “Let’s date.”

They entered the restaurant hand-in-hand, and Dean was at first overwhelmed by how much he didn’t belong here. This place oozed wealth. The sconces in the red walls shone with gold; the musicians on the far side of the huge open room strummed heavy notes, rhythmic and plush. Every person here tonight wore something spangly and well-fitted, the women draped in beautiful pearls, the men in suits that probably cost more than the figure on Dean’s old wanted posters.

“Boy, do I feel underdressed,” Sarah whispered to Dean, pulling on the swaying fabric of her black dress.

“Yeah, I get th―” Dean swerved his head as an usher approached, a smile plastered on her face.

“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

“Uh, y- yeah, we’re with Emanuel Monty-mercy?”

“Montmorency? Of course. He and his fiance are already seated. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you to your booth.”

“Ooh, a booth,” Dean murmured, following the usher. Remembering himself, he turned and held his arm for Sarah, who smiled and hooked her hand gracefully through his own.

Dean swallowed, mind feeling altered by such easy use of the word ‘fiance’. Cas and Daphne weren’t engaged, not yet. Cas would have told him. He _would_ have, Dean was sure of it.

He would have... right?

They passed round tables with fat diners, slim diners, people with many different skin tones and accents, the likes of which turned Dean’s head, absorbing any snatches of conversation he heard. He scouted the area, checking for exits, set on edge by how many knives he saw on every table.

He couldn’t switch off the danger setting inside him; everything felt suspicious even when he knew clearly that there was no _possible_ way for his old life to catch up with him now. He was safe, but going to new places shot him back to his past like a bullet. New places meant a new job, a new threat.

He was _safe_. He told himself as much in his head, over and over, like a mantra, all the way to the booth.

Scarlet leather seats lined a rectangular alcove, a white tablecloth over the table, a bottle of water and a bottle of wine sitting beside each other, surrounded by cutlery and glassware, everything gleaming.

Dean’s breath caught in his mouth as he saw Castiel, his eyes set on Daphne, who sat beside him, closer to the aisle.

Daphne looked up as the usher announced Dean and Sarah, and her smile broke into a grin. The usher left them, and Daphne stood, a hand held out for Sarah to take.

“Sarah Blake,” Sarah said, her hands set over Daphne’s as they greeted each other. “I’m Dean’s girlfriend, but don’t think any less of me for it.”

Daphne laughed, somehow delighted by that. “Daphne Allen. Mother, stockbroker, and Emanuel’s partner in everything but crime.”

Dean pursed his lips, resisting the urge to cram his hands into his pockets.

“Do take a seat, Ms. Blake. May I call you Sarah?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, of course,” Sarah laughed. Dean got how she felt; he was equally unadjusted to being referred to as anything other than his first name.

Sarah slid into her seat, but immediately stood up again, turning to Dean. “You go in first, sit opposite Ca― Emanuel. I’d love to talk with Daphne.”

Dean saw the ‘ _do what I say because I’m helping you_ ’ expression in her bulging eyes and tilted head. He smiled, shaking Daphne’s hand as he slid into the booth. His tie dragged on the tablecloth, and he hurriedly grabbed it and smoothed it down, shuffling along so his right leg knocked on the wall.

Castiel looked at him in silence from opposite, his position held still, mouth closed: calm calculation. The wash of golden light from sconce in the wall two feet above his head made his eyes seem darker, and the fine grooves in his lips seem deeper.

Dean licked his lips. “Hey... Emanuel.”

Castiel took a while to answer. As his lips parted, they stuck a little, like he’d not spoken for some time. “Hello, Dean.”

Daphne clattered her full glass of water against the table as she set it down, and she turned to Castiel with a soft look in her eye. “Are you ready to order, hon?”

Dean pulled in a breath. “Uh, what... what sort of thing are we getting here?”

Daphne gestured to Dean’s menu, and he pulled at it, opening up the red cover to see the fine cream paper with the evening’s selection printed in calligraphy inside.

He felt so wrong like this. One of the first things he’d told Castiel to do with Daphne was take her someplace with a menu. Dean _knew_ how to navigate fancy restaurants. And yet, right now, he felt like a fish out of water. Castiel was already folding his menu closed.

It occurred to Dean, then and there, that Castiel already knew this stuff. He knew about taking his girlfriend to a restaurant, and about pulling her chair out to sit down; he knew more about which cutlery to use than Dean did; he knew how to taste expensive wine and not look like a douche while doing it. He already knew, in short, how to woo a woman. This entire time, Dean had been fooled into thinking Cas was clueless.

Not clueless. He just never knew how to smile. After that first lesson, Dean had been teaching Castiel things he already knew how to do.

Dean didn’t know how to feel any more. Cas had stuck around all these weeks to see Dean make a fool out of himself. Yes, the reason could just as easily have been that he enjoyed Dean’s company. But the fact remained that Dean had, in fact, been made a fool out of.

Closing his eyes, Dean cleared his throat and looked over to Daphne. “I think I’ll have a burger and house fries.”

Daphne looked astounded. “There’s a wide selection of Italian cuisine here. Wouldn’t you rather try something from there?”

Dean shook his head. “Just the burger.”

It was one of the cheapest things on the menu, placed firmly in the children’s selection. He resolved not to allow anyone to laugh at him; not Daphne, not Sarah, not their waiter. He liked burgers, and he couldn’t afford this restaurant. Even though Daphne would be shouting this meal, it felt rude to impose expense upon her. The choice was simple.

Sarah and Daphne sank into a conversation so easily that Dean felt envious; he’d never been able to simply fall into place with people like Sarah did.

She was a master at the grifting game, her new identities worn as easily as clothes. But this time, lying low in San Francisco, she wasn’t playing a character. This was _the_ Sarah, down to the bare bones of her personality: honest in every lie she told Daphne; the love of Sam’s life posing as Dean’s, con artist extraordinaire.

“Are you all right, Dean?”

Dean glanced at Castiel. He was peering back at his face, eyes shifting between each of Dean’s.

“Yeah,” Dean said, not entirely truthfully.

“You look... nice, tonight. You’re wearing contact lenses?”

Dean blinked a few times, suddenly aware of the weightlessness he’d come to ignore over the journey here. “Yup,” he said, examining the thick tablecloth. “Glasses get in the way of my good looks.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Castiel said. He slid a hand flat over the table and rested it against the nearest chilled glass bottle of water, dragging his skin over the condensation. “You’re always... um...” he flicked a glance in Daphne and Sarah’s direction, making sure they were still talking, then he lowered his voice, leaning closer to Dean, “very h- hot.”

Dean tried to hide his smile with a hand, pretending to rub his nose. Perhaps Castiel was not an expert at everything - some words ought not be used by him at all.

Dean watched attentively as their waiter came to take their order; Daphne listed everyone’s choice, casting a judgemental look in Dean’s direction as she mentioned his burger and fries. The waiter clearly held back a smile, eyes off his notebook for a moment to examine Dean’s awkward grin.

As they were left alone again, Dean let free a breath. “Is it just me, or is everyone pretty touchy when you order all-American when you’re in Italia?”

Castiel tilted his head, eyes shining with something akin to silent laughter. Nobody answered Dean’s question outright, but he didn’t really need confirmation.

As they settled back into conversation, Daphne and Sarah touched hands, smiling widely. Dean followed along with their talk, their discussion moving from topic to topic like a sheep through a fence. They both shared interests in influential writers, all of whose names Dean recognised, but he couldn’t place their genre. Once or twice he posed questions, but he got his answers in just a single sentence, and then Sarah blocked him out again.

It took him fifteen minutes to realise that, in keeping Daphne engaged and Dean unengaged, Sarah was trying to give Dean the space to talk to Cas. Dean again felt pretty stupid, but even once he knew what the deal was, he couldn’t scrounge up the energy or motivation to talk to the man in front of him.

But then he felt a knee brush against his own, and his eyes darted to meet Castiel’s.

Castiel smiled. Then his knee shifted against Dean’s again.

Cas was actually slumped down a bit in his seat, just so he could reach Dean to touch him without anyone else noticing. All those times Dean would walk past him in the flower shop, fingers sweeping against any exposed skin, hand pressing into his lower back, shoulder knocked against his own - this was either Castiel’s payback, or his time to give Dean the same touch.

The purpose was not exactly to comfort, but to share something outside of words. Even by the closeness alone, even when Castiel stopped nudging his knee against Dean’s, his warmth felt like a touch. Contact.

With his lower lip between his teeth and his eyes on the silver fork under his fingers, Dean parted his legs a few inches.

Felt kinda sexy.

He smiled, canting his hips forward a bit, slowly, hearing his suit pants make the thick leather underneath him creak. His leg touched Castiel’s, and as it did, Castiel locked eyes with him fully. His knee was between each of Dean’s now.

Dean whispered to Castiel so quietly he was more mouthing than speaking; “I’m still mad at you.”

Castiel’s eyes lowered to the table, gaze lingering on Dean’s fingers as he fiddled with the unused fork. Then he looked back to Dean, something defiant in his gaze; hard yet tender. “Perhaps I should seek to change that.” Voice like a velvet road, undeniably seductive.

Dean shuddered - _shuddered_ \- as he felt his suit pants riled by Castiel’s leg as it lifted between his own; his calf dragged up Dean’s inner thighs, cloth setting fire to his skin with its friction. His body was filling with sparks that wouldn’t go out, collecting like fallen stars in his abdomen, still aglow, still hot and aflame as Castiel’s shoe made it to Dean’s crotch.

Dean gasped in silence as Castiel’s toe began to knead.

The shoe’s sole made the press painful, and Dean gritted his teeth, giving Castiel an uncomfortable look. Castiel glanced to the women, then exhaled, removing his foot.

Dean could have whined; it had been painful, yes, but he wanted that foot back where it had been a moment ago.

The waiter approached their table, announcing the meals as they arrived. Dean now knew why Castiel had pulled away from him, and it was not for the sake of Dean’s pain. Dean gave the waiter a tight smile as his burger was swept down to the tablecloth in front of him, the salty aroma of it making his stomach pang with a hunger he’d barely noticed before.

But as the waiter moved away, Dean cleared his throat. “Sarah, could I, uh, get past? Need to use the little boy’s room.”

Sarah moved for him, standing up in the aisle with her eyes set longingly on her food. Dean patted her arm as he went past, making sure Daphne saw them touch; girlfriend, boyfriend, keeping up appearances.

With his head down, Dean walked straight for the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant. The door to the men’s room swung open under his hand, and he screwed his nose up at the sudden stench of bleach. It probably wasn’t all that strong, but after the glory of steam from Italian cuisine, a spot of bleach seemed like a sea of poison.

This room was deserted but for himself, and he moved to stand in front of the mirror, the silver basin of the long urinal taking up the entire reflection. He looked at himself, saw his face was flushed. Maybe from that first rise of arousal, maybe from embarrassment, or maybe the warmth of the restaurant’s full house on a summer’s evening.

He startled as the door to the restroom opened again. It creaked on its hinges, its own weight forcing it closed once Castiel entered. Castiel looked around, saw Dean, lowered his eyes, and moved straight for the wide silver urinal that ran the entirety of the far wall.

Dean sucked his lips between his teeth, watching Castiel’s reflection.

And Dean set a dare for himself.

He walked over to Castiel, undoing his pants. He stood less than a foot away, their elbows within touching distance.

Dean kept his eyes on the wall as he started doing his business, but he couldn’t help but hear the shift of material as Castiel moved. But no, he didn’t move away. Nor closer. But his eyes had turned to Dean, staring at the side of his face.

“What?” Dean said, a quiet challenge. He looked at Castiel, held his gaze.

“I’m sure this is some sort of social faux-pas,” Castiel said, looking down at himself and away from Dean’s face. “There is plenty of room, and you’re standing here.”

Dean’s eyes dipped down Castiel’s body, resting upon where Castiel’s fly sat parted, both hands used to steady his flow. Dean blushed, breath shaking as he turned his face to the other side of the room instead, staring at the tiles.

He felt dirty. _Sexy_ dirty.

Castiel cleared his throat, a two-tone gruff note. Dean heard him finish, shake himself, then zip up.

God, Dean was hot all over. Maybe he was even a little hard, and wasn’t that just the wrongest thing ever? He could probably do jail time for feeling this good about something like this, he was pretty sure.

Castiel ran the tap, and Dean blinked back into full awareness. He hurriedly covered himself and zipped up his fly, having been done some time ago. His hands were fidgety, and he felt a deep and grounding desire to put his hands on Cas to soothe his shivers.

Dean joined Castiel at the washbasins, eyes down, feeling his face burning, probably close to setting his suit on fire. Slowly, he raised his gaze, more out of unavoidable curiosity than a conscious desire to see Castiel staring back at him.

Castiel was blushing too.

And smiling.

Dean looked back to his hands as he washed them, pumping out way too much soap on purpose. Maybe he could wash off this dirty feeling, he didn’t want Daphne or Sarah to see the soul-deep corruption that was forming in him.

Daphne was meant to have Cas. Dean wanted Cas. Dean was going to _have_ Cas, no matter who he was _meant_ to be with.

“I’ll see you at the table,” Castiel said, calmly. His voice echoed a little in the tiled room.

“Wait, I’m done,” Dean said, rushing to dry his hands on a paper towel. He held onto it as he moved to the door, and he used the paper to cover his hand as he pulled on the handle. With his foot in the door to keep it from closing, and with a quick smile to Castiel, he balled up the paper towel and hurled it like a basketball. He sent it straight into the trash basket that rested on the floor underneath the hand drier.

Dean held the door for Castiel, and let him exit first. Dean followed behind as they moved back into the house of good smells and good fortunes, the hearty aromas overtaking Dean’s senses once more, the taste of bleach eradicated from his memory.

“You didn’t touch the door handle,” Castiel muttered, slowing to walk at Dean’s side, shoes silent on the carpet. “Why?”

Dean smiled slightly. “I can deal with dirt. I’ll eat food while I have plant soil under my nails. But a payphone or a door handle, I can’t do it. Eugh.”

“You’re a germophobe,” Castiel said, as they reached their table.

Dean sneered at Castiel, then glanced once at Sarah as she stood up to let Dean sit. Daphne did the same for Castiel, and Castiel thanked her kindly.

Daphne gave Dean a peculiar look, and Dean burst with flame under his skin again, wondering if she knew. All the things he felt for Cas were all over his face, and he was _thinking_ them at her, unable to stop the surge of recollection. Castiel’s happy smiles, the taste of Castiel’s mouth, the way semen spilled out of him when he came. All the things Daphne wouldn’t enjoy until after Dean had already tested them, if ever.

Daphne smiled and went back to her food, thick pasta sauce coiling steam above her plate like a rising fog.

Dean shifted his attention to his own food, zoning out the sound of Sarah’s voice. There were two ends of this table, and to Dean, it felt like two separate dates were going on.

“So yeah,” Dean said, looking at Castiel, hoping to fall straight into a conversation. “Mud, oil, blood - bodily fluids of all kinds... I’m good with that.”

Sarah choked.

Dean screwed up his eyes and shot the two women a desperate glance. “I mean I don’t mind it _on_ me! Like―” His insides curdled. “Shit. No, not like that, not like that! Christ, I mean I’m―”

“He’s a germophobe,” Castiel said, cutting over Dean’s babble. “I think he means he can stomach those, ah, things, but... payphones―”

“Payphones and door handles! And other people’s flasks and stuff.”

Daphne sat there with an open mouth, and Sarah had her hand over her face, eyes wide.

Dean shrivelled and curled over his food, wishing he was a tortoise so he could hide in his shell.

Daphne started laughing. It started as a giggle, became a hiccup, and then she kind of... snerked.

Castiel beamed at her, blatantly delighted with the sounds she made. Dean’s lips turned upward, as equally entranced by the way Castiel smiled as he was with the funny noises Daphne kept on making.

“Aww, you have _the_ cutest laugh,” Sarah said, reaching a hand over the table to squeeze Daphne’s hand as she calmed down. Sarah chuckled. “Back in college, when I first started dating, every date I went on, I’d end up crying,” she offered, like that was relevant.

“Oh, on the subject of dating,” Daphne said, sobering up straight away, “how did you two meet?”

Dean paused with his burger halfway to his mouth, eyes on Daphne. He was going to let Sarah field this one.

Very slowly indeed, he took a bite of his burger, letting it surround him with its taste, flavour and substance, sensation flattening over his tongue, each millisecond that passed filled with nothing but deliciousness.

“We met in college, actually,” Sarah said, her bare ankle bumping on Dean’s. “He bought me flowers.”

Dean swallowed, his own voice in his head telling him that this was most definitely the best burger he’d tasted in over a year, if not ever.

“Ahh, flowers,” Daphne said, sweetly, tapping her fork prongs on her plate. “Emanuel picks out the nicest bouquets for me.” She looked at Dean, her lipsticked smile parting to show a grin. “There’s magic in those flowers, isn’t there, Dean?”

Dean chewed heavily, bobbing his head low. “Mmm-hm.” He made the effort to swallow before he spoke, “I drug them all before they go to sleep. Flower power, I call it. Dust of the gods.”

Daphne nearly twitched. Dean chuckled, and explained, “Plant food. Nutrients and stuff, comes in neat little packets.”

Daphne made a big show of her “ _Ohhh_ ” of realisation, and Dean turned his attention back to his food, picking up a thick-cut fry between his fingers.

“Besides,” Dean went on, sucking salt off his thumb, “Cas ain’t the one making the bouquets, so don’t go giving him all the credit.”

“Emanuel,” Sarah corrected.

“Yeah. Manny.”

Castiel clattered his fork. “Dean.”

Dean just smiled charmingly at him, head swaying as he returned to shoving meat into his mouth.

“So the flowers he gives me, it’s all your work?” Daphne asked, interest sparking. She leaned forward, her fork hovering with speared pasta halfway to her mouth.

Dean licked his lips quickly, wondering how to defer away. “He, uh, tells me what to do. And I do it. It’s kinda nice, actually, him giving me directions,” he said, lips wobbling on a very soft smile, breathing in. A brief frown crossed his face, and he lowered his gaze to his half-empty plate.

“Since I didn’t know you,” Dean continued with a glance to Daphne, indicating he meant her, “I was basically making flowers for some phantom girl. So, pretty much, when I was making you flowers, I was just giving Ca- _Emanuel_ pretty things. And he passed them on to you.” He smiled, meeting Daphne’s eye completely. “But when he gave you roses, that was all him.”

Daphne seemed flattered, a smile on her lips, hand on her heart. She turned her doe eyes on Castiel, cooing at him.

Castiel gave her an awkward smile―

Daphne put a kiss on his lips, and Dean’s heart slammed to a stop; Cas’ eyes opened wide in surprise. Daphne pulled back, leaving behind a red lipstick mark on Cas’ mouth.

Dean felt rotten inside. _You can’t do that, I love him._

Castiel parted his lips and breathed out, blinking a few times. Daphne laughed something affectionate, then turned towards Sarah, another conversation billowing up like smoke out of embers.

Dean’s hand was dripping with sauce from his burger; he’d just frozen there, everything shut down.

The tip of Castiel’s tongue poked over his lower lip, and Dean did not miss the shake in his hand as he raised his fingers to touch his mouth. That same hand reached for a silk napkin, and he put it to his mouth and rubbed away the lipstick, gaze never leaving his plate of pasta.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, on his breath.

Castiel looked up to meet his gaze, and Dean hoped _he_ was the reason for the shiny tears that had filled Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel put down his napkin, and returned to his food without a word.

Dean ate his meal, every last speck of it, even scooping up the shreds of lettuce that remained on his plate when he was done. But in that time, his eyes barely left Castiel.

The waiter brought the wine Daphne chose, and Dean didn’t even bother pretending to be a connoisseur, since he’d already made himself look like an ass enough tonight.

Castiel slung the glass in a small circle, breathed in the wine’s aroma, then sipped the red liquid quietly, eyes closing every time he swallowed.

The two of them listened more than interacted with their dates, since Sarah had pretty much swept up Daphne into a whirlwind of conversation, already having formed the kind of friendship that would most likely involve future dessert-tasting at Daphne’s house. Dean thought about inviting himself, but didn’t say a word.

Castiel was on his third glass of wine when his shoe came off.

Dean breathed hard into his wine, eyes half-closed as his breath steamed up the inside of the glass. He could feel Cas’ toes wriggling against his inner thigh, inching higher and higher, hot under his socks, hot through Dean’s suit pants.

Dean shed his jacket, steaming under the heavy layer.

Castiel pressed the ball of his foot between Dean’s open legs, pushing hard, meeting the slow thrust of Dean’s hips with more pressure.

Dean closed his eyes and put down his wine, a hand sliding under the table to touch himself. He wrapped his fingers around Cas’ upper foot, feeling his sock wrinkling under his touch, his toes spread as he pushed, and pushed, and pushed.

It hurt, the pressure hurt, but Dean just went on stroking Cas’ foot, hips gyrating so minutely that he barely felt it himself.

He looked up to meet Cas’ eyes, seeing that beautiful blue shade already darkened, wine in his head, intoxication running in Dean’s veins the same way. Cas sat with one elbow on the table, fingers curled by his mouth, one finger sliding between his lips. The pink of his tongue ran along the fingernail, tantalising.

“ _Ow_ ,” Dean mouthed at Castiel.

Castiel eased off, eyelids giving a tiny flicker of apology.

Daphne leaned closer to Castiel’s flushed face, and asked him, “Emanuel... are you okay? You look a bit overheated.”

Castiel replied, voice heavy, eyes still on Dean, “I’m fine. I’ve drunk more than you, it’s just going to my head.”

“Would you like to go home?”

Castiel’s tiny smile seemed almost cruel. “I think we could stay for dessert. And more wine.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted at the mention of dessert.

Castiel foot stroked, curving Dean’s inner thighs, bristling over his crotch. He pulled away slightly, but Dean didn’t want to let Cas stop. He grabbed his foot and shot Cas a pleading look, and thank god, he brought it back against him.

Dean sighed softly as Castiel rested his toes on his groin once more. This time, he didn’t press, just stayed there. Dean stroked his foot, and Castel smiled, a lovely rising pleasure on his face, warm and gentle, not fierce like before.

They stayed like that from when they ordered dessert until it was delivered, Dean massaging Cas’ toes with one hand, fiddling with his cutlery above the table. Castiel swapped his foot once, and Dean chuckled, happily massaging the other foot too.

Dean’s apple cobbler arrived, and only then did he allow Castiel to slip his foot away.

The cobbler was about as amazing as the burger, and he wished dearly that he had enough money to eat here more often.

He ate half, then set down his fork, turning to Sarah. “‘scuse me.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and stood up, letting Dean slide along the bench. “Hey, don’t judge me, lady,” he said. “I have a small bladder; wine’s going right through me.”

Sarah shoved him gently, and he nudged her back as he passed by.

Castiel didn’t follow him this time, and Dean couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

✿

“Emanuel, what in Heaven’s name is going _on_ between you two?” Daphne demanded, as soon as Dean was out of earshot.

Castiel sat down in his seat, turning his gaze away from Dean. He’d been straining upwards to watch him leave, and Sarah was almost convinced he meant to follow again.

Castiel took a small breath, blinking distractedly as he spared Daphne a glance. “What do you mean?”

Sarah smirked. It was too obvious, and Castiel... well, he couldn’t exactly hide his interest. His eyes were darkened by more than just wine, his lips were sore from the amount of times he’d licked them. He hadn’t removed his gaze from Dean’s in half an hour, perhaps longer.

“I mean,” Daphne said, placing a hand on the Castiel’s dark-suited forearm, “if you and him are fighting, you ought to resolve it. You’ve barely said a word to Dean all night. You told me before that you talk with him all the time.”

“I do,” Castiel said, eyes darting over his shoulder to the bathroom door, where he evidently wanted to go.

Sarah began to wonder if a restroom break was really all he wanted. Why else did they want to go in together, if not because they spent their time in there talking?

Sarah didn’t think Dean would be all over Castiel today, not physically. She’d told him to ease off the guy, and if anything, Dean would follow her instruction, as he always did. So it had to be talking. That was all.

“If you talk with him usually, then why are you so quiet tonight?” muttered Daphne, cupping a hand around Castiel’s cheek. “I know you get shy, but Sarah and Dean are such nice people.”

“I’m not shy,” Castiel said, a hard frown bursting across his face. It evaporated, and he looked quickly to his coffee cake, the whipped cream atop it slowly collapsing as he prodded it with his fork. “I’ve drunk quite a lot tonight,” he said, reasonably. “I’m fine.”

Daphne sighed slowly, her hand returning to her own plate. “The two of you _are_ fighting, though, aren’t you. You had a disagreement.”

Castiel was still for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

“What about?”

Castiel sucked on his fork prongs, then pulled it free of his lips and shook his head.

“All right,” Daphne said, softly resting a hand on his arm. “Make sure you let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

Sarah smiled as Daphne turned back to her, ready to begin talking again. But Sarah’s mind lingered on the way Daphne acted around Castiel. She seemed to baby him, speaking to him more like a mother than a girlfriend. Sarah wasn’t sure how Castiel felt about that, but she didn’t think it would be easy, nor comfortable.

Then again, when Dean had told Sarah every detail about Castiel, he’d never mentioned a mother. Maybe Castiel liked having that role being filled somehow. To Sarah the whole situation appeared messed up to some degree, but it wasn’t her place to judge.

Nor would it have been a good idea to say anything to Dean as he came back, his face like a funeral. He’d missed Cas while he was in the restroom.

That too seemed odd, but it sure as hell made more sense than Daphne’s story about a rabbit made of noodles and a flying clown. Upon hearing those words, Sarah blinked, and looked straight at Daphne, watching her smile growing wider as she burst into laughter.

“You zoned out completely,” Daphne explained, grinning over at Dean and Castiel, who had both sniggered at Sarah’s reaction. “Now, what were we talking about...? Oh yes―”

They stayed for at least another hour. Sarah kept a close eye on the wine, watching its dark line sink lower and lower, another bottle opened and brought to the table. Castiel kept pouring water for both Dean and himself, presumably to settle the effects of the wine, allowing them both to drink a little more while avoiding total drunkenness.

Nobody was watching the clock, but they wore away a significant amount of time once they realised all four of them were avid watchers of _The X-Files_. Castiel at last turned his attention away from Dean and fully to Sarah and Daphne, speaking at length - and a great deal of length at that - about his expectations for the seasons he hadn’t watched yet. Sarah and the other two all found his theories marvellous, imaginative, but wrong on nearly every single count.

The longer they sat, the more they laughed, and the more Sarah saw Castiel touching Dean’s hands. He’d run his fingertips between the webs of Dean’s fingers, thumb resting on his pulse point before moving on, palms pressed to palms, smiles exchanged when Dean felt tickled.

Daphne saw it too. She and Sarah shared significant glances on more than one occasion.

Daphne knew what was up. Sarah could see she _knew_ how attracted Castiel was to Dean, it was too obvious to not see, and Daphne was not blind.

Sarah was unsure if it was related, but Dean wriggled and squirmed in his seat an awful lot. It started to get on Sarah’s nerves, but she refrained from hitting him, remembering her manners. Castiel crossed and uncrossed his legs, sometimes kneeing the table, sending the cutlery jumping. Sarah chalked it up to the wine, always the wine. Their heated faces didn’t dissuade the theory.

Only when the four of them finally decided to leave for the night, and Dean stood in the aisle, stretching before excusing himself to the bathroom, did Sarah and Daphne get another chance to speak alone. Castiel didn’t say a word before practically bolting after Dean, suit jacket falling to the ground behind him.

Daphne sighed and picked up the jacket, then rested it on the seat before sitting back down. She waved for the waiter, prepared to cover the meal’s cost for everybody. As they waited for the cheque, Daphne twiddled her thumbs.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, more quietly than she’d spoken all night.

“About what?”

“About Emanuel. I think he’s...” Daphne pulled in a soft gasp, and ducked her head to whisper, “ _gay_.”

Sarah bit the insides of her cheeks. She didn’t know anything about Castiel’s sexuality, but it was impossible to deny how much he wanted Dean. She flicked her eyes towards the men’s room, wondering what in God’s name was happening behind that door.

“I heard the deal was to marry him,” Sarah said, meeting Daphne’s desperate gaze.

Daphne nodded. “I think I understand now, why his father asked me to do this. He knows about Emanuel’s... you know, _preferences_ , and he didn’t want it getting to the media. Emanuel’s thirty-eight years old, it’s already strange that he’s gone so long without any long-term relationships.”

“Is his dad really like that?” Sarah asked, mildly baffled. “Would it really be so terrible for _him_ if Emanuel fell in love with―”

“You don’t need to say it,” Daphne interrupted. “I think I know how Emanuel feels about― Um. I mean to say... I’m not sure if you realised―”

“It’s okay, I know how much he likes Dean.” Sarah offered a smile. But she kept Dean’s cover; letting Daphne know Dean was single would lead her straight into a deep well of suspicion, and that would be no way to end the great night they’d had. “It’s hard to miss.”

“It is, isn’t it? My god, they’re _all over_ each other.” Then she gasped loudly, eyes wide. “I mean! I mean, Emanuel is all over Dean. Dean likes _you_ , I’m completely sure.”

Sarah smiled, and let her have that one.

✿

“God fucking dammit,” Dean wheezed, grappling with his zipper as he rushed towards the urinal. “You’re a sick bastard, Cas. I hate you.”

Castiel laughed, all of him warm and clearly more than a little drunk as he rolled himself against Dean’s back, snaking a hand under his shirt. “You don’t hate me.”

“I’m still mad at you, and I can’t _fucking_ get this zipper undone.”

Castiel breathed against Dean’s neck, mouth open, his exhale hot and humid, which certainly didn’t help Dean’s need to get his fly down. His hands were clumsy, his eyes bleary with fatigue and alcohol, head filled with phantom buzzing.

“Mmm,” Castiel murmured, sliding around Dean, nose against his cheek as he moved to stand in front of him. Dean parted his lips, wanting to kiss but knowing full well that he shouldn’t.

Castiel undid his zipper for him, fingers deft yet slow, dragging full touches over Dean’s covered half-hard cock as he went. Dean whimpered, feeling his insides pulsing, his lingering arousal coupled with the desperate need to piss making him feel somewhat tense.

Castiel edged out of the way and let Dean step forward. Dean’s head rolled back as he finally got to pee, and he relaxed, a long sigh floating out of his open mouth and into the air.

Castiel had practically been pouring drinks down his throat all night, and mid-way through the evening conversation, it had become apparent that he wanted to watch Dean squirm, pressing his feet against Dean’s bladder just to make him _feel_ it. Although... Dean hadn’t exactly done anything to stop him. They could be nasty to each other, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t both enjoy how it felt.

“Red,” Castiel muttered.

“Hm?” Dean looked over at Castiel, eyes halfway closed.

Castiel stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean, undid his own zipper, and then a second streaming hiss joined Dean’s own. “You’re wearing red lace,” Castiel said, nodding at Dean’s crotch.

Dean glanced down, seeing the red panties he had indeed put on before leaving the apartment. “Yeah, red’s my lucky colour.”

“I suppose lace is your lucky fabric.”

“Nah, ‘s just pretty, and it feels nice. Plus... I kinda like wearing frilly clothes. Hmmmmm.”

“You’re tired. And drunk.”

“Uh-huh. I need a nap.”

“Would you come home with me?”

Dean’s skin flared with pleasure, and he stroked himself gently, dripping empty at last. He turned his eyes to watch Cas thumb at his own cock, enjoying the release of pressure. He’d drunk plenty too, Dean could only imagine it felt damn good to let it all go.

Slowly, with a rough drawl on his words, Dean said, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you, cowboy.” He loved talking like that. The wine made it easier, he felt he was like slipping into something comfortable.

“Then, may I come home with you?”

Dean watched Castiel shake himself dry, then cover up. Their eyes then moved to meet each other, Castiel waiting for Dean’s answer.

“Why,” Dean said, “You don’t wanna be alone tonight?”

“Not that.” Castiel headed for the basins, bumping the faucet and letting the water run warm, spilling soap into his hands at the same time Dean did. “I don’t want _you_ to be alone.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk. Just kinda tipsy.”

“Dean.” Castiel rubbed his hands together furiously, the loud splashing almost drowning his words. “I don’t want to fight any more. I don’t like this.”

Dean scoffed. “You think this is what I’m like when I’m angry? Buddy, this is nothing. I killed a guy, once.”

He sobered immediately, but Castiel didn’t seem to notice.

“I meant what I said on the phone the other night, right before I hung up,” Castiel said, slamming off the tap. Dean turned his own tap off slower, gentler, mulling over those words. “Dean, I meant it. I think - I _hope_ \- you meant it too, when you said it to me. Sam told me it was by accident.”

“But I could’ve meant it too,” Dean said, and Castiel nodded, already aware.

Castiel handed Dean a paper towel, and took one for himself. “I’m sorry I gave you a fake name.” He swallowed, eyes on the floor. “I’m very sorry. More for the fact I never told you my real name than the fact I told you I was Castiel in the first place.”

Dean shrugged. “Honestly, Cas? I’m mad at you for lying, but I’m not that mad. I’ve lied about worse things to people I love - _like_ \- just as much as you.

Castiel’s smile was quiet, but radiant. Dean’s second slipped confession hadn’t escaped his notice, the same way he hadn’t missed the first.

Dean sighed, chucking his paper towel into the trash right after Castiel’s. “Glad we had this talk.” He said it sarcastically, but without inflection, and it only came out as a truth.

“Me too.”

Dean managed a small smile. He stepped closer, and fell against Castiel when he wrapped his arms around his lower hips, pulling him into a hug. Dean groaned as their chests pushed together, his own arms around Castiel’s shoulders, his cheek on Castiel’s neck. He breathed out, then in, sensing the wholesome scent of Castiel’s skin, even through the blast of bleachy air he inhaled.

The door opened, and the two of them broke apart, Dean’s hands raised in surrender in case it was Daphne. But no, it was a potbellied bald man with a moustache to rival Gabriel’s fake one, and he only gazed blearily at Dean and Castiel, strolling for the stalls at the end of the bathroom.

Dean licked his lips, tipping his head towards the door. Castiel nodded, and went ahead of him.

Dean felt a sunshine ray of pride as Castiel tucked his shirt sleeve over his hand before opening the bathroom door.

It occurred to Dean, as they strode between the diner’s tables, that maybe Cas kept his hand especially clean for the sole purpose that he could hold Dean’s hand later.

Dean then made it his mission to find a chance to do exactly that.

The four of them stepped out of the warm restaurant and into the blue air of the night. Out here, the breeze hushed cooly through the street of homebound cars, carrying away the city fumes.

Castiel didn’t look quite right without his trenchcoat, but Dean was imperceptibly relieved as Castiel swung it around himself, then pulled it on over his suit. It must have been tucked in the booth somewhere while they ate.

“What time is it?” Sarah asked, while Daphne called a cab from her cellphone.

Dean checked his watch. “Ten.”

Sarah yawned, since that number meant she ought to be in bed.

“Cab’s on its way,” Daphne informed them. “I assume we should drop Emanuel off first, since you live closest,” she said, as she took Castiel’s hand.

Dean’s nostrils flared. He felt desperately possessive of Castiel’s now-occupied fingers.

“Actually, I think I want to go with Dean,” Castiel said, glancing to his other side, where Dean stood with his mouth sliding open. “We... made up, while in the bathroom.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah. Got some catching up to do, or something.”

“Well... then...” Daphne said, gulping. “I suppose we can do that.”

“Dean and Sarah only live around the corner from you,” Castiel told Daphne. “We could drop you off first.”

And they did exactly that. The ride was short, and quiet; Sarah was getting drowsier by the second, and the main conversation consisted of Daphne alone, as she made two calls to her daughter’s babysitter, the first one of which ended when she accidentally dropped her phone.

Dean and Castiel pressed their thighs together as they sat together in the cab. Dean’s hands kept to himself, but his eyes wandered freely, his world basked in the light of the streetlamps they passed. Castiel dragged his fingers across his own hip, making sure his trenchcoat wasn’t in the way of Dean’s view.

There was no secret here. Cas wanted Dean to look at him, and he probably liked it just as much as Dean did. Maybe more, if the shadowed rise in his slacks was anything to go by.

Tipsy, and _easing off_ , Dean reminded himself. Don’t touch. Don’t think. Stop wanting.

But it was so hard to stop wanting when Cas wanted him back. If there was anything the two of them needed to talk about, it was the fact that Cas kept on wanting Dean, dragging him into the whole selfish mess with Daphne. Every way Dean looked at it, the entire situation was ridiculous.

Daphne barely said a thing as she left the taxi, thanking Emanuel for covering the travel fee.

Dean felt the cold as Castiel leaned to farewell Daphne through the rolled-down window. Dean turned his face away, glaring at the opposite side of the street. The taxi didn’t move on, though, and Castiel slid out of the car, closing the door behind him.

Dean pulled in a breath - did Cas change his mind, did he want to stay with Daphne tonight instead, was he angry at Dean for something?

Paranoid. Paranoid and wrong; Castiel kissed Daphne on her doorstep, let her into her house, then returned to Dean’s side in the cab. Sarah chuckled from the front seat beside the driver, as Castiel then handed cash to the driver.

“Out,” Castiel said.

“What?”

“Get out of the taxi, Dean. We can walk the next part.”

Dean clambered out of the car, but Sarah stayed. “What about you?” he asked her, as she rolled down the window.

“Sam texted me, I’m gonna drive around. I’ll be home when you get back.”

Dean glanced warily at the taxi driver, unsure if he could allow her to go alone. But she winked, and that meant she had a knife somewhere on her, in case anything went bad. Dean nodded, and backed onto the sidewalk, bumping into Castiel.

The taxi drove on, and Castiel turned to Dean. “Walk with me, Dean.”

Dean smirked, but was annoyed to find he nothing to stick his hands into, since his suit pockets had never had their stitches unpicked, and until then, would remain useless. He started walking, satisfied that Castiel kept pace with him, slow and patient.

Castiel made a quiet sound, and Dean looked over to see his mouth open, as if he were about to speak.

“What?” Dean encouraged, tilting his head playfully.

“May I - hold your hand?”

Dean was already smiling, but Castiel perhaps didn’t see, since they weren’t directly under a streetlamp, and he went on; “I know it’s absurd, and we shouldn’t - especially since we’re so close to Daphne’s house... Maybe we shouldn’t at all, I’m sorry, this was a terrible idea. I only meant it―”

He actually gasped out loud as Dean’s hand met his.

Warm and dry. Bony, but firm; their grip started unsurely, but became a lock, fingers together. Dean’s hands were a perfect match for Castiel’s.

Castiel said nothing else, no thanks given. He breathed out through pursed lips, like he was calming himself. Dean saw his eyes closing slowly but not completely, his focus still on the street ahead of them.

“You really like my hands, huh.”

Castiel laughed, almost nervously.

Dean began to swing their hands, chuckling at how childish it seemed.

But he also began to think, and as he thought, he realised he should say some of those thoughts aloud. “These hands,” he said, head turning to watch Castiel’s face. “My hands. They’re not as nice as you think.”

“We all hate something about ourselves, Dean,” Castiel said, immediately, almost as if he’d prepared the line in the case that Dean voiced exactly what he had. “I happen to enjoy things about you that you probably aren’t even aware of.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Castiel hummed a note, a tiny smile on his lips. The orange fall of another streetlamp passed by overhead, the stark shadows on Castiel’s face turning his eyes to the hollows of a skull. “Like the way you swear.”

“Oh, I notice _that_ all right,” Dean laughed.

“I’ve never met anyone else who uses cuss words so flippantly. They’re a part of your vocabulary, they mean a lot more to you than any basic definition.” Castiel shrugged, his fingers tugging Dean’s. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It’s... enticing.”

Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel’s, feet swaying closer. A pebble knocked on his shoe.

Castiel sighed, lips apart. He looked at Dean with such a reverence, and not only due to thoughts of Dean’s dirty mouth. “Tell me about your hands, Dean.”

Dean shivered; he felt a thumb skirt over his inner wrist, across his pulse point.

Castiel liked feeling his heartbeat, and Dean craved the same connections but never attempted to seek them. Searching for heartbeats was for the worst of times, for danger. Dean craved safety; Castiel offered it, but Dean couldn’t allow danger to enter what they had between them. A heartbeat could be enough for Dean to crave exhilaration again, a trigger―

Bullshit.

Dean lifted his hand between them as they walked, palm up. Castiel’s fingers remained trapped between Dean’s; Dean spread his fingers, and Castiel unfolded his own. They walked now with their palms pressed together, Castiel still waiting for Dean to speak.

Dean turned their hands, and he sought Castiel’s pulse.

“Hey, stop walking a minute,” he murmured.

They stopped beneath a streetlight, a cascade of its buzzing power over their shoulders.

Dean ran his fingertips over Castiel’s hands, and oh, how Castiel trembled. A puff of air escaped his lips, a wanton message on the breath that Dean could only translate one way: he liked this, he liked Dean’s touches.

“Tell _me_... Tell me about why you wanna hold my hand,” Dean said, growing hot under his collar for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. “Just tell me what you feel for me, I wanna know.”

“I love you.”

Dean turned his face down, a bare joy in him that rose as a small laugh. “Tell me what it’s like?”

He didn’t recognise his own voice, right now. He watched his own hands exploring Castiel’s, and he heard the strange and curious request that had come from his mouth, but he sounded roughened. Or smooth, maybe - he found it hard to tell. His throat had vibrated under the guttural words, the way he spoke always seeming too deep.

Castiel let free a breath. “I feel I want to protect you. The way I’m meant to feel for Daphne, and I don’t, not the same way.” He paused. “I see you and I want... maybe to hold you. And always - I keep on thinking about kissing you. You’re...” he laughed softly, leaning so close Dean felt his breath on his cheek, “beautiful to me. Your hands, your spectacles, your incessant cursing. I’ve never enjoyed another person as a whole before I met you.”

“Is that what love’s meant to feel like?” Dean frowned, clutching Castiel’s hand again for reassurance; he hated how stupid his questions were. He’d never have said those words had his mind not been wine-washed, hazy and clingy. He sought Castiel’s closeness like he sought his heartbeat.

“I’ve never been in love quite this way before,” Castiel said. “It’s very strange.”

Dean swallowed. “I’ve been in love before. It wasn’t like this.”

“What was it like?”

Dean let their hands drop, giving up on the heartbeat. He was too scared to find it, because he’d felt Castiel’s heartbeat once before, and it had stung him with shock. He didn’t want this moment, now, to make him feel anything other than the entangled spiralling he already felt.

“It was short-lived, and life interfered. People I loved did me wrong and I didn’t want to try again. This time...” He closed his eyes, and pulled himself against Castiel, face buried between his shirt collar and his neck. His skin was hot. “This time I want to forgive you. Every time, I feel like I’d forgive you. The same way I do with Sammy. No matter what.”

Castiel rested a hand gently on the crown of Dean’s head, thumb stroking. He whispered, “Why?”

Dean shook his head. “Fuck if I know.”

Castiel laughed sharply, body jolting under Dean’s holding arms. He pulled away enough that their eyes could meet, and Dean smiled, glad just to see his face.

“Maybe I’m drunk,” Dean reasoned, and Castiel gave a wobbly sideways nod, eyes away then back. He moved in to kiss Dean, but their lips never met, foreheads bumping, resting in place.

Dean closed his eyes, breathing slowly.

He started to hum.

Castiel chuckled, turning his head and running his eyelashes over Dean’s cheek. “ _Losing My Religion_ again.”

Dean stopped humming, swallowed the sound away. He chose his confession. “My hands have done bad things,” he said.

“Well, would you take responsibility for those things, or are you going to blame them all on your hands?” Castiel asked, a touch of amusement in his low voice.

Dean moved a little closer, setting their dress shoes between each other like the teeth of a zipper. “The things... my hands did...”

He couldn’t continue. He shook his head, growling as he pulled away, strode three steps out of the light, cold in the darkness. He ran a fast hand over his mouth, and spun on the spot to look back at the man under the streetlight. Castiel’s trenchcoat hung about him like it was a home that he wore, and he looked comfortable there, even as Dean lost his way.

“I want to go home,” Dean said, hands in fists at his sides. “You coming with?”

Castiel stepped to meet him, and he took his hand again, slow fingers around Dean’s aching fists, which were tight enough to hurt. They soothed, and Dean relaxed; Castiel held him, fingertips slid between Dean’s.

“I’m coming,” Castiel said.

Dean wished he could hold both hands at once.

They walked in silence down the stairs that led to Dean’s tiny street, no streetlights here, shadows and dripping pipes filling the darkness on either side of them. Dean walked without fear, guiding Castiel to the white door that led to his apartment.

“I think we have more wine,” Dean said, a hopeful look passed on to Castiel as he backed into the unlocked door. “You’re handsy - ‘n footsy - when you’ve got wine in you. Kinda like it.”

“I hold myself back less,” Castiel explained, following Dean’s tripping feet as he reversed his way up the stairwell. The front door clacked shut behind them, and they laughed in the woody darkness, hands together, Dean’s sleeve clutched in Castiel’s grip. “Wine makes me...” He trailed off as they reached the top of the landing, where Dean’s shoulders pressed to the door.

“Wine makes you fun,” Dean said, and Castiel nosed as his lips. They both purred at the back of their throats; one of Dean’s hands spread flat over Castiel’s jaw, thumb on his lips, fingers over his cheek, touching his ear. Dean licked his lips, and in the process, tasted Castiel’s skin. Castiel made a pleased sound, then another one, the second purled with desire.

“Cas,” Dean whispered. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What about Daphne? Why drag her along if you really want me so bad?”

Castiel shut his mouth, lips inadvertently putting a kiss on Dean’s lower cheek. “My father.”

Dean fiddled with Castiel’s loosened tie, fingers pushing him back a few inches. In the dark, he couldn’t see him watching his face, but he knew Castiel’s eyes were on him.

Dean shook his head, standing up straight and pulling on his jacket hem. Castiel’s body was still pressed to his, but the sound of voices beyond the door no longer rumbled under Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean?”

“I’m thinking,” Dean said, although it was a thin truth. “Your dad―”

The door opened, and Dean turned quickly, alerted by the sudden blast of light that arrived on Castiel’s face.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Charlie said, her hair rumpled and looped in a way that suggested she’d either been asleep or having sex very recently. “Get inside. And Dean, you might want to wear some sort of gas mask.”

Dean stepped inside, confused. “What’s going on?”

Sam and Sarah both leaned out of Dean’s bedroom door quickly, saw it was him and Castiel, then they ducked back inside. Dean frowned; that was _his_ bedroom.

Castiel looked around himself, then his eye followed Charlie as she too made for Dean’s room.

“What the hell is happening?” Dean called after her, hooking an ankle over his knee so he could undo his shoelaces. They were smoother and more cord-like than his usually frayed strings, and the oddness of them distracted him, his fingers confused and unsure which end to pick.

Castiel, however, toed his shoes off, and with a practiced kick, and they tumbled to join the pile of shoes behind the door as if they belonged there. Castiel gave Dean a triumphant smile, then strode after Charlie, shedding his coat and jacket and tie as he went, throwing them onto the couch.

Dean sat down on the floor and manually worked out how to undo his laces. He pulled the right string for each shiny black shoe, and was somewhat disappointed that nobody else was around to see his success.

He jogged across the room, trailing his jacket off his arms until it fell, caught on the back of his ankles as he left it behind.

He entered his bedroom with some trepidation.

Sarah, Sam, Charlie and Castiel all knelt, crowding around the foot of his bed, the once navy-blue bedcovers striped with white fur. In the centre of the happy cooing sounds everybody made, was Lucifer.

Lucifer...

And five small wriggling demons.

“What the everloving fuck,” Dean intoned, untucking half of his shirt. “It exploded.”

“Lucifer’s female,” Charlie said to Dean, over her shoulder. “And pregnant.”

“ _Was_ pregnant,” Sam corrected. “Her skin infection was apparently hereditary.”

Dean snivelled at the sight of the five small patched lumps falling over each other, reaching for the fat little teats on Lucifer’s pink belly.

Then Dean sneezed, and came up satisfied that Lucifer hissed at the sound. Dean hissed back, teeth showing.

“Aren’t they wonderful,” Castiel murmured, his chin resting on the foot of Dean’s mattress. Dean’s couldn’t see his face, since he stood behind everyone else, but he could imagine the watery anime sparkle in Castiel’s eyes.

Dean folded his arms, one hand raised to pinch his nose so he couldn’t inhale any more atoms of cat. “Tell me none of you knew that Lucifer was with child.”

Sarah lifted a shoulder, turning her face towards Dean. “None of us knew,” she said, in a way that clearly said she knew _perfectly_ well, but just hadn’t thought to tell anyone else.

“Oh, right,” Dean chuckled, removing his hand from his face, gesturing it at the cats instead. “Yeah, ‘cause none of you noticed that the bastard doesn’t have balls.”

Charlie stood up, combing her hands up through her red hair until it sat in a ponytail, then twisted around nothing and fell down again. “We were told he - she - was spayed. As in, had his reproductive bits cut off when he was a baby.”

Castiel swivelled in place on the carpet, and leaned his back against the bed, looking up at Dean. His skin was still flushed with pink on his cheeks, but now his eyes too were aglow with _kittens! kittens, Dean! kittens!_

Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand across his itchy face, already feeling his eyes watering in reaction. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll join you,” Charlie said, mighty cheerful. “Jack or Jim?”

“Wine,” Dean said, following Charlie out of his room, dragging his socks over the partition that bordered carpet to floorboards. “Preferably red.”

“Why that?” Charlie asked, tying her hair up properly this time as she made it to the kitchen. The bright light was welcoming here, homely.

“‘cause Cas likes red wine and it makes him feel sexy,” Dean said, going ahead of Charlie and dragging the first bottle out of the rack that met his hand. “And I’m not really in a whiskey mood. Whiskey’s for when everything’s turned to shit.”

“Ahh,” Charlie beamed, taking the wine out of Dean’s swaying hands before he hurt himself. “And you don’t count kittens on your bed as gone to shit?”

Dean shrugged, mostly with his face. “I guess they’re kinda cute. But,” he sniffed, running a finger under his eye, wincing at the twinge his contact lens gave him, “I’m not touching them, because I get the impression I’d catch their damn cooties. Look at me, I’m gonna die by excess of kitten.”

“Your eyes are watering because you’re tired,” Charlie told him. “And you’ve been wearing those contacts for longer than you’re used to.”

“Eh.”

“Oh, are you pouring wine?”

Dean turned with a smile as Castiel shuffled out of his bedroom, alight with _kittens! kittens! kittens!_ and _ooh, wine..._

“I’ll make that three glasses, then,” Charlie said, winking at Castiel.

“Five,” Sarah said, closing the bedroom door as she and Sam exited, hand-in-hand. Dean kept watching them, a smile creeping up his face as he saw Sarah’s ring had been returned to her finger.

“So how was your date?” Sam asked, looking first at Castiel, then to Dean.

“What, your wife can’t tell you?” Dean asked, smirking at his brother.

“I told him it was lovely, and Daphne is a very nice woman,” Sarah said. She rested her elbow on the bartop, accepting the wine that Charlie passed her. “I also think Dean and Emanuel here were on a completely different date.”

“It’s Castiel,” Castiel said, with a quick glance to Sarah, before his eyes landed back on Dean. “I’m only Emanuel to the rest of the world.”

Dean took his wine as well as Castiel’s, and swayed up to him, moving hips first as he pressed himself into Castiel’s personal space. He handed him his wine, and Castiel’s eyelashes batted, that perfect humility heightening on his cheeks once again.

“We’re honoured,” Sarah said, raising her glass to clink it against Castiel’s before they both drank.

Dean stepped back, raising his glass to his lips. It smelt like the cabinet it had been kept in, and the wine tasted about the same as the stuff they’d had at the restaurant, despite this kind probably being a hundred bucks less expensive.

Castiel swallowed another sip of wine, eyes on Dean. “Actually, Sam,” he said, finally answering his question, “I don’t think the date is over yet.”

Dean became wholly inspirited in reaction to those words.

“Dean,” Castiel went on, business-like, “would you care to show me your rooftop garden?”

“Boy, would I,” Dean said, head knocking towards the glass door. He led the way, black socks sliding on the floorboards, wine swirling in its glass as he carried it carefully. He heard the muffled laughter of his friends, the sound chasing him until he stepped outside, the concrete cold through his sock, a tiny bit of grit poking his heel.

He held the door until Castiel joined him, shoulders brushing warm. Once the door was closed, Dean sighed.

“Let’s get some music on,” Dean muttered, handing Castiel his wine. He couldn’t meet his eye for a moment, embarrassed at how romantic he felt at present. He had always had the inclination to woo someone this way, with wine, with music, with flowers - but he never did before now. Too clichéd, maybe. Or too soppy. Either way, his daddy would never have approved unless it was for a con.

The barbeque sat in its own brick alcove, mirroring where the wood burner sat on the inside of the apartment. Dean put both hands on the barbeque’s metal cover, and it rolled upward in a curve, like a small version of the shop-front shutters which often became graffitied in the central city.

An old record player hid in the alcove’s shadow. Dean smiled, and set the current record at its start.

“I pretty much made a mixtape,” Dean explained, turning back to Castiel and retrieving his wine. “Stuck a bunch of more recent songs onto a vinyl record.”

“Impressive,” Castiel said, his sultry gaze resting on Dean as he threw back another sip of wine. “I didn’t think that was even possible any more.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t like to limit myself.”

Castiel chuckled, head tilting. God, his eyes were so dark, even in the yellow sweeps of light coming from inside, the moonlight on his other side, the goddamn _starlight_ \- he looked ravenous, yet somehow still soft.

Dean hummed a few notes of the music, something unnamed, halfway between a tango and a 1940’s brass band piece. His hand slid over Castiel’s, cupping where Castiel held the stem of his wine glass.

“We’re being watched,” Castiel said.

Dean sucked in a breath― _Oh fuck, they’ve found us_ ―

“Your friends don’t seem to know the meaning of privacy,” Castiel continued, an amused rolling glance passed over the glass to his left. “Gabriel is home.”

Dean let out the breath he’d taken, relaxing as he watched Gabriel being informed that there were five new souls under the roof. His excitement surprised Dean, and Dean smirked as Gabriel pranced across the apartment.

“Dean,” Castiel said.

Dean looked at him.

The world always seemed to fall away when he was with Castiel. Clocks stopped, the planet turned without them. The importance of the future melted away to nothing; plans faded.

Castiel was the here-and-now of Dean’s life.

Castiel had nothing to say, however; he’d called Dean’s name just to meet his eyes. Now, his eyes slid shut, and he hummed, head swaying to the music.

Dean stepped closer, humming along, tuneless.

Castiel’s hand wound its way around Dean’s wrist, and Dean barely opened his eyes before he followed its lead. Castiel took them to the loveseat, and he sat first, on the right, body angled so Dean could sit beside him, close to him.

Dean groaned with fatigue as he sat down, lower back aching. He was getting old, and it seemed like a wasted development. Men got older and they got better at the things they did, but Dean felt he had nothing left to be good at, sometimes.

“My father,” Castiel said, “wants me to marry before he puts anything in his will for me. He doesn’t want me to live alone the way I have for the whole of my life. He thinks...” Castiel closed his eyes, sighing as the loveseat began to swoop gently. “He thinks his money would be wasted if I don’t share it.”

Dean hung his head, wishing this wasn’t the sole reason Castiel wanted him alone.

But, pondering Castiel’s words, he said, “Is money so important to you that you’ll marry Daphne, even though you don’t love her?”

“How do you know I don’t love her?”

Dean shut his mouth. Castiel could love her too, it was certainly possible. But it hurt to think about, because Dean, no matter how selfless he could be, was selfish when it came to romance. “I don’t know,” he said, quietly. “Maybe you do. But you don’t want to marry her.”

“That is true.” Castiel dipped his head slowly, sipping his wine, feet kicking up on the highest part of the loveseat’s soft swing. “In all honesty, I don’t think I know what I want yet. I’m still new to this, this whole future marriage thing.”

When Dean said nothing for a while, Castiel continued, “I’d like to find out what I want. It might take some experimentation.”

“And?”

“And, right now, there are things I would like to share with you.”

Dean stared into his wine, watching the moonlight break on its thick ripples.

“Dance with me, Dean?”

Dean laughed, shaking his head as he raised his glass to his lips. He downed a long swallow, then rested the foot of the glass on his thigh. “I don’t dance.”

“That is exactly what I tell everybody I don’t want to dance with, too,” Castiel said, standing up, walking past Dean until he stood on his left side. He crouched, and Dean heard the cloppy sound of his half-empty wine glass being set onto the concrete. Dean looked down at him, again seeing the want in Castiel’s eyes. “Dance with me.”

Dean gave him a pleading look, but Castiel stood up determinedly, going to rest his feet just in front of Dean. The seat stopped rocking as Dean’s knees bumped into Castiel’s.

Dean peered up into Castiel’s face, and his body tingled inside, fizzing with champagne he hadn’t drunk, an ache paining him in a way that was nothing like real pain.

“Dean, when I look at you... I want things I’ve not wanted before. I want to impress you, and I will - I _will_ make a fool out of myself as I do so. There are few things I’m proud of in my life, and most of those things, I have never shown anyone.”

“Like your paintings.”

Castiel’s tongue poked between his lips, eyeline drawing to Dean’s lap, then back to his face. “Yes.”

He held out a hand, and Dean very gingerly placed his fingers against Castiel’s palm, letting him guide him up. Castiel removed his wine from his grasp and ducked to the floor to rest the glass beside his own, beside Charlie’s ragged pile of cigarette ends.

“I know how to dance,” Castiel said, fingers braiding between Dean’s, watching them connect. Dean’s body pined for more; he wished all of him could be touched the way Castiel touched his hands. “Dean,” Castiel breathed, a deep note, “Tell me you want to dance.”

Dean screwed up his eyes, growling as he moved to rest his forehead on Castiel’s. “I do. I do wanna dance. I wanna do crazy shit with you, show you all the stupid stuff I like, stuff I never showed anyone. But right this second, my brother is watching. Gabriel is watching. I can’t do it.”

“They’re not in there,” Castiel said, soothing him, hand on the back of Dean’s neck. “They’re looking at the cats.”

Dean’s edges rubbed away, and he nodded, just once. “...Fine then. Fine, I’ll dance.”

Castiel took Dean’s hip and pulled him, their faces together. Dean followed, his eyes never straying from Castiel’s.

Castiel’s eyes were bluer than...

Actually, Dean wasn’t sure. They were very blue, but they weren’t comparable. If anything, Dean would compare the sky to Castiel’s eyes, not the other way around. He’d see a shade, a colour, and it was Castiel’s Blue. Castiel’s Tan Trenchcoat. Castiel’s Fingernails in the Sun. He could start a paint-matching company.

He laughed, and as they made it to the middle of the roof - five steps, it had only been five seconds - Castiel gave him a questioning glance.

“Nothing,” Dean said, smiling at him. “You just have real nice eyes, for a liar.”

Castiel pressed his lips together, no longer rocking his head in time to the song that just ended. “I’m sorry.”

Dean leaned his face close, breathed out over Castiel’s lips. “I used to lie for a living.”

“Did you...?”

“Yeah. And - I’m lying to you right now as well. I’ve been lying since the start, Cas. I’m... not who you think I am.”

Castiel pulled in a breath, and Dean frowned, closing his eyes tight. Another song began from the record player, strums on a guitar, and Dean was going to explain himself through it; their dance could wait...

But he found himself swung around, and he yelped, arm outstretched as Castiel flung him outward. Pulled back in - spun; locked in Castiel’s arms from behind.

Dean gasped, eyes staring at the stars above, still and unmoving as he was curled outward again, socks burning against the concrete as he swivelled his weight.

The music seduced them both, drums under a night sky; not quite a tango, too rattly, too hollow. Wind across a desert road, snow in the upper atmosphere, not fallen, never going to fall―

Castiel breathed across Dean’s cheek, foot sliding between Dean’s ankles from behind, rocking him side to side. Guitars in the air, gentle, pulling on unseen strings.

The hands in Dean’s took him, dragged him, and he went willingly into Castiel’s grip, soaring him across the roof. Only now did Dean catch sight of Castiel’s face, bright in the moonlight, glowing in the houselight. Like fire, like ice. A smile like an angel.

Dean let Castiel take him by his lower back, dipping him; unexpectedly, his feet slipped, but Castiel was strong, in control, he caught him without hesitation. The music swelled, violins, an orchestra through the dust of sound. Rhythm and a soul cascaded upwards like a flare shot from the roof, and Dean and Castiel joined the stars for a single moment as Dean was pulled up to his feet.

Their hands raised together, wrists twined, skin together; _heartbeats_ together. The moon held up their tiny steps, Castiel turning around Dean with his eyes down, lifting - lifting to meet Dean’s. Darker than a void in space, bluer than the sky could ever hope to be.

Breath on Dean’s lips, noses pressed to each other, no space between their foreheads. Hands stayed raised, Castiel doing something special with the way he turned his wrists around Dean’s. Their hips brushed; Castiel was so solid, his form supple and firm as he moved, stepping, stepping, moving Dean backwards.

Castiel’s hands dropped, gripping Dean’s forearms softly as he went, touching. Those hands reached Dean’s shoulders, his hips. Dean kept his hips swaying, tiny movements, hands reaching for the stars, wrists turning as Castiel’s had a moment ago.

Castiel took his hips with his wide hands, held him there, held him tight. The music was blooming with colour - more than sound - more sensation in the drummed notes than could be limited to audio. No vibration came in the ground, but the air thrummed with it, like cicadas basking through a hot night, like an army breaking ranks to clap their hands as one.

Holding Dean as they moved, Castiel lowered his body, hips into Dean, legs parted; he swayed, pendulating against him, side-to-side, lower, lower, muscle and softness pulsing against Dean. A beat, and then Castiel had his arms around Dean’s lower back again, and Dean thought they would be still―

Swung once more, swung outward, carried on a tide of Castiel’s strength. It came from nowhere, and Dean laughed in the exhilaration of it. He was breathless, and he hadn’t noticed. This moment was too incredible to waste on breathing.

Dean fell back against Castiel, dipped again, feet tripping helplessly. The violins were soaring in the space between their hearts, Castiel’s hands making shapely music as his grip moved to hold Dean’s other hand. He could have hit the ground, falling and falling - then realised he was back in Castiel’s arms, held tight, spinning.

Dean laughed, and Castiel chuckled, spinning him, spinning them both with their hands joined. A waltz, a tango, Dean didn’t know. They danced, and it burned him, chilled him; clipped his chains.

Dean’s hands flipped up the hem of Castiel’s white shirt, fingers finding skin. Castiel held Dean’s hair, gripping him, anchoring them for the moment before they tore apart again.

Castiel’s footwork was fast, practised; maybe he’d danced by himself, in secret. He was so good that Dean was being danced without knowing how; Castiel pulled him, turned him, swung him. Dean just went where Castiel led him.

Breathless. So breathless.

Their eyes met and sparks flew.

“Close your eyes,” Castiel whispered, nose pressed to Dean’s cheek. “Dean... close your eyes.”

Dean set his eyelids shut, losing himself as Castiel twisted him; all spatial relation and distance became nothing but Castiel’s hands, trusting. Gave himself over.

The whole orchestra played for them both; building, footsteps rose on the sounds of the guitar, the violins, the uneven drums, and the thumping of a recorded hand against a drum, drum, drum; their heartbeat.

Tilted on the spot, Castiel’s arms held Dean from behind.

Spun across a space Dean couldn’t see; Castiel’s body pressed to him from in front.

The music began to quieten, layered down to the guitar it started with. Slowly, they stopped dancing, swaying instead, Castiel’s hands gripping the lowest part of Dean’s back, weight rested in them. Everything was held in those hands. Dean was nothing outside of that touch; all he wanted was right in front of him.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

Dean felt himself being eased upward, taking his own weight onto his feet as if it was for the first time. Castiel’s hands slid to Dean’s hips, hard breath on his lips.

“Keep them closed, Dean,” Castiel repeated, despite Dean’s eyelids not doing so much as flicker. “Keep them... closed...”

Hands fell away.

Dean parted his lips, waiting for the kiss. Castiel was his.

He waited; breathed...

Waited.

Cold.

He opened his eyes, and he found he was alone.

He looked around himself, pulling in sharp breaths, seeing two wine glasses left unfinished beside the loveseat, seeing his potted sapling trees gently fluttering their leaves, bristled by the night breeze.

He looked inside, and saw the front door close.

He could have been saddened, confused as to what that exit meant.

But he wasn’t sad, or confused. It meant Cas didn’t want to say goodbye. Goodbye meant they’d both have to think about whether to tell each other again: they were in love. Fallen. _In love_.

Like people did in movies. An oddity, a kind of joke maybe. To Dean, at least.

But he curled hot fingers into his sweating palms, and he felt more than a little satisfied. They could both know they felt how they felt, and neither had to say.

The glass door opened again, Charlie tiptoeing out. She smiled, putting a cigarette between her lips.

“He wished us good luck with the kittens,” she told Dean, clicking her lighter behind her cupped hand, as she moved to stand beside Dean. “How was your post-rendez-vous rendez-vous?”

Dean was shivering with leftover excitement, brimming with it. He felt quite brilliant, shining with something glorious.

“That good, huh,” Charlie muttered, taking the expression on his face.

He knew he was smiling, he knew he looked happier than he’d ever looked before. He wondered how shiny his eyes had gotten, how wide his grin was, how many years of age had been wiped from his face.

A song Dean recognised started playing, and he glanced to the record player, a light chuckle tumbling over his lips. He hummed to the song, eyes closing. “So This is Love.”

“Oh my god, you got Disney songs onto a personal record? How the heck did you do that?”

Dean just shook his head, laughing at the sky in utter joy. He opened his eyes to see the stars, dots in the polluted blackness of beyond. The city made this place bright, the world glowing at the edges.

Charlie’s cigarette smoke gusted away, and Dean looked over at her to see her grinding the stub onto the concrete.

“You weren’t even done with that.”

Charlie shot him a fast smile, one that reminded him exactly how much he loved his sister. His family would never end with blood; she was family, just like Sammy, just like Cas.

This song was all violins; floating notes that carried over the roof, the sounds appearing real, like in a cartoon. Dean could have caught them in his hands. He spread his arms and let them turn, feet pacing him in a circle.

His hands found Charlie’s; he took her by the hip, and he began to lead her. He was still dizzy from Castiel, his head filled with him. He could still feel his hands even where Charlie’s slimmer grip took his.

The music lifted in a jump, and Dean let Charlie hop under his hands, rising with her weight, then bringing her back down. She laughed, he laughed, and they spun around.

“I’ve never seen you look so happy,” she whispered, a hauntingly cautious note on her voice. “What’s he done to you?”

Dean closed his eyes and pulled Charlie close as they kept moving, dancing like any man and woman, spinning not like he and Castiel did, but like brother and sister, together for a song that they both loved.

“I don’t know what he did,” Dean replied, bouncing Charlie as the music swelled once more. “I don’t know what _I_ did...”

Everything was magical. Crazy... Crazy and magical.

Ilene Woods’ enchanting voice hummed the first lines of the song, _mm-mmmm... mmm-mm..._

Dean led Charlie slower, his eyes closing. He rested on the music, breathing gently as the lyrics began. He sang along, “So this is love... mm-mmm... So _this_ is love....” Dean’s voice came bewitched from his throat, deeper than ever.

He reeled himself outward, realising that his eyes were filled with tears as he stood in the moonlight, looking back at Charlie. “So this - is what makes life... divine.”

He pulled from her hand, both of his hands going to grasp his own hair, pushing it down towards his neck, in awe of how much he _felt_. “I’m all aglow... mm-hmmm... And now I know...”

He was lost. Totally, totally gone. He locked eyes with Charlie, barely able to see her through the shine that filled his eyes. “And now, I know...”

Charlie sang same words, the harmony. God, she knew the song as well as Dean did, and it had never - _never_ \- meant as much to him as it did now. He beamed at her, feeling a single tear tickle his cheek.

“The key... to all Heaven... is miiiine―”

Dean laughed as he looked out at the sky, his fingers locked behind his neck. Heaven was out there somewhere. He didn’t believe in God, nor angels, but he’d prayed despite that... and that prayer had come true: _Castiel_.

“My heart has wings! Mmm-hmm― And I can flyyy―!”

Charlie laughed, dragging Dean back before he stepped closer to the edge of the roof, just joking. Arms spread, his wings wrapping down and around Charlie. He held her, laughing into her shoulder. “I’ll pass - every star - in the sky. So this - is the miracle... that I’ve been dreaming of...!”

Together, Dean and Charlie gripped each other around their backs, Dean’s hand tight on Charlie’s other side. They grinned out at the stars, and they sang the last line in perfect pitch, perfect harmony.

“...So this... iiiiis... love.”


	12. Goodbye Forever

Emanuel paid the taxi driver, thanking him quietly as he closed the cab door. His mind wasn’t on the long drive, but on the other car that was parked on the pale gravel.

Halfway in the midday shadow of the Montmorency estate, Daphne’s light turquoise 2CV sat parked, its rounded hood tocking as the sun warmed it.

Emanuel’s hands started to sweat as he neared the front door. The knocker was massive, central - but Emanuel had no need to touch it, for the door was already swept wide open, the passage through to the marble halls filled with the draft of sizzling summer air, a breeze tunneling through the entire lower half of the house.

Emanuel’s shoes tapped on the marble as he walked between the white pillars, like a mere memory of a man, following the sound of Daphne’s laughter.

Straight through, he found himself in the huge dining area, one single table in the middle, its white cloth moving at the corners as the breeze caught them. Beyond the table, the panelled doors to the garden had been drawn back, the gaping rectangle sucking and pushing the air like the house was breathing.

Sun seemed like a permanent fixture here. It slanted through the open door, past the pulsing of the white chiffon drapes, and it lay rectangles of glowing warmth upon the dotted marble. The shapes of two people were outlined beyond the open doors, chuckling in the sunshine.

Emanuel put his feet together, shoes tapping as he stood like a soldier. “Good afternoon, Father.”

The man beyond the doorway turned at the sound of his son’s voice, and Daphne’s light words drifted away, her turning too.

“Emanuel,” she called, delight in her voice as she bounced back inside the house, up the tiny brick step. She strode to his side, hand pressed daintily to his heart as she reached up to kiss his cheek. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive, lunch is almost ready.”

“I didn’t realise you were coming today.”

“We thought we’d surprise you. Your father wanted to meet Juliette, anyway, so Sunday lunch seemed like a good excuse.”

Emanuel nodded, turning his eyes back to his father. The old man’s waistcoat blended to the wall behind him, graceful; the taste of Sunday rode in the air as their eyes met. Emanuel bowed his head, and his father nodded back, a gruff harrumph given in greeting.

“I hope you’re keeping well, Father,” Emanuel said, eyes down. “My apologies for not being able to make it this past week.”

Mr. Montmorency harrumphed again, his bony hand wafting away Emanuel’s words. “You seem... impressively healthy, Emanuel. Ms. Allen must be treating you well.”

Emanuel breathed out a short laugh, closing his eyes as he nodded, just once. “I dare say Daphne’s company is part of it.”

“Mom!” came the voice of a child, and Emanuel glanced to the open door to see Juliette hop inside, wearing a sundress with a ribbon in her wild hair, bouncing as she fell into her mother’s side. She looked at her with a brightness in her eyes that Emanuel once recalled his own eyes having. When he looked at his mother, maybe.

Juliette’s young gaze turned to Emanuel, and she smiled, sly. “I _told_ Mom we would be early. You’re not late, Mr. Emanuel, so don’t worry about being embarrassed.”

Daphne shushed her, hand on her shoulder.

“Well, I’m always late when I drive out here, and my father knows as much. As I heard it,” Emanuel said, smiling at the girl, “it’s a lady’s prerogative to arrive at whatever time she wishes.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Montmorency puffed, hands slapping to his middle. He beamed at the child, chuckling deeply. His voice had gotten weaker since Emanuel had last seen him. Despite the gruffness in his tone, Emanuel heard his wheezing, and was unable to imagine exactly how much pain his father was forcing himself to hide.

“Little girls are as entitled to be early as grown-up women, and being a lady...” the old man crouched down, groaning as his bones shifted, “...has nothing to do with how early or late she should be. If a lady has an appointment...”

Juliette stepped towards Mr. Montmorency, and filled in the end of his sentence, “She arrives on time.”

“Precisely.”

Daphne’s arm slung around Emanuel’s lower back, half-hugging him as they both watched Emanuel’s father and Juliette interact. The old man would be her grandfather soon, Emanuel thought. The two of them already gave the impression that they worked well in that dynamic; Daphne and Juliette must have been here for quite some time already.

“How have you been?” Daphne asked, turning his face to Emanuel as she spoke, quietly. “Did you get home okay last night?”

Emanuel nodded, leading Daphne to the dining table, where their places were already laid out. “I didn’t stay long at Dean’s apartment. Their cat gave birth to kittens, so I imagine they had their hands full.”

“Oh, he has a cat?”

Emanuel smirked, pulling out Daphne’s chair. “Not exactly.” The wooden feet squealed on the marble, but Daphne kept the chair silent as she tucked herself up the table. “He’s terribly allergic, and from what I understand, he never wanted a cat. Somebody left it - her - with them.”

“But they’ll take care of the kittens, won’t they,” Daphne said, looking at Emanuel imploringly as he removed his coat, hanging it on the back of his own chair before taking his seat at one end of the table, to Daphne’s left. “They wouldn’t get rid of them before they’re ready?”

Emanuel shook his head, pulling up his shirtsleeves, then brushing down his beige waistcoat with a hand. “That household is comprised of caring people. The cats would be loved, no matter how―” Emanuel chuckled, “how badly Dean’s eyes weep, or his skin itches, or he loses sleep. I think he’s managing it.”

“Ahh, is that why he looked so tired last night?”

Emanuel inclined his head. His eyes turned to watch his father sit, and Emanuel stood momentarily, then retook his place once his father was settled opposite him, at the other end of the long table.

Daphne smiled at Emanuel’s father, and all of them reached for their napkins, spreading them over their laps, or, in Mr. Montmorency's case, into his shirt collar.

“Jules, come sit down,” Daphne called, and her daughter came closer, a handful of garden flowers in her hand.

She laughed, hurrying to Mr. Montmorency’s side, handing him the flowers.

Emanuel’s chest constricted with emotion as he watched his father’s eyes crinkle, his head dipping in a loving nod, his hand reaching to gently take the offering. He laid the flowers before his empty dinner plate, praising Juliette with words he’d never spoken to Emanuel. “Thank you, my darling. They suit my eyes, don’t you think?”

“Your eyes are much bluer than forget-me-nots. Did you know blue eyes are a recessive hereditary gene?”

Mr. Montmorency laughed, head tilted back. His gaze rested upon Emanuel, and he chuckled, the aged lines of his dusty muzzle tightening. “Ah, my dear. Yes,” he turned back to the girl. “Yes, I did know. Emanuel’s mother had eyes like no other woman I’ve ever met.”

Emanuel ought not be jealous of a twelve-year-old girl. But he’d never been spoken to that way. To be praised and encouraged like that as a child...

Perhaps, Emanuel thought, that is why as an adult, he craved Dean’s praise. He wanted to please Dean, lavish him with goodness, and in return, all he wanted was to be told he had been good. Done the right thing, as it were.

If only he could please his own father so easily. Nothing he’d done so far got him any more than an upturned chin, raised eyebrows, a polite grunt.

Over the years, Emanuel had come to wonder what he could possibly do to meet his father’s needs. It was only within these past months that he received definite instructions: he was to marry. Marry, and he would be granted everything. Marriage to Daphne was his key.

If only it could have been something else.

Their food was served, the waiting staff sliding in with their wheeled trolleys and buffed silver platters, revealing steaming lobster, crumbed fish, boiled potatoes with a herb seasoning, salads. They worked fast, and within a single minute, the Allens and the Montmorencys were alone once more.

They began to eat, conversation muted for the time being.

Then Mr. Montmorency cleared his throat, and Emanuel looked up, his fork poking salad into his mouth.

“So tell me,” Mr. Montmorency said, “How is your relationship progressing? I admit, I find myself eager to... move this forward, shall we say.” His eyes fell to his food, and he stabbed at a potato. “If everything is as expected, I do hope - _ahm!_ \- we could be hearing those church bells chiming for something other than the change ringing.”

Emanuel pretended to chew his food, mouth empty of everything but a buzzing nervousness.

“Ah, it’s going just fine,” Daphne smiled, a hand sliding to curl softly over the loose fist Emanuel rested on the table. “We’re going slowly, we really shouldn’t rush―”

“Rush perfection!” Mr. Montmorency exclaimed, his fork rising like a toast to the couple before him. He shook his head with a chuckle as he laid the fork back to his plate, prongs down.

And then he sighed, and Emanuel set his fork down too, watching his father lace his wasted-thin fingers together, the edges of his hands resting on the gold border of his plate. “Alas,” he lamented, “rush may be what you have to do.”

Emanuel swallowed hard, eyes nearly closed. He couldn’t look up.

“Sir?” came Daphne’s curious voice.

“I have... one year,” the old man said. “My last and only wish is to see my son... become the man I never could be.”

Emanuel’s eyes filled with tears, mouth tense, but he still did not look up.

Daphne pulled in a breath, but Juliette asked before her mother did; “What’s happening in a year?”

“I will die, my child. I will perish like the old man I am.”

Emanuel’s gaze shot up. “There is treatment! Thousands of other people have survived cancer―”

“Your mother suffered through the treatment, Emanuel, I can’t bear to let you see me die the same way.”

“Father―”

“Not now! Can’t you see we’re upsetting Juliette?”

Emanuel looked at Juliette, who seemed more baffled than upset. The girl looked back at Emanuel and shrugged; he blinked a few times, clearing away his tears, showing her a brave smile. She popped a potato into her mouth, staring at him.

Emanuel sighed through his nose, turning back to his food, but it didn’t seem so appetising any more. Daphne’s hand squeezed his, then slowly slid away.

“I wish...” Mr. Montmorency said, “for Emanuel to share his life with a woman he loves. I want to see him marry, I want to see him happy.”

“Ha!” Emanuel said.

He could feel his father’s baleful watch on him, but his outburst went without a response.

“The company, as you well know, is no longer being run by myself as CEO,” the old man went on. “My associates have done very little to keep it afloat, but praise be to God, our investors have yet to catch wind of the calamity we’re facing. We - Divine Power - may regrettably need to be broken apart and sold. Upon my death, I will bestow the entirety of what’s left to Emanuel.”

Emanuel again chewed around nothing, jaw twitching as he ground his teeth.

“However...” A long silence came: cutlery rattled on plates, the breeze flapped the curtains, but only after a heavy sigh did Mr. Montmorency continue, “I refuse to give this abundant wealth to a man who cannot _share_ the way God intended him to.”

“How rich,” Emanuel snarled, fork slammed to his plate, eyes on the table. “A man who values God’s will, are you? God’s plan? And yet all I see―” he looked his father in the eye, watching that cold stare with one exactly the same, “is a man too afraid of pain to hold on to the gift God gave him. I know you believe God provided medicine to the world, yet you refuse to use it!”

“I do not fear _pain_.”

“Then what is it?!”

“I want you to love your wife, your _child_ , with the resources I never had. When I die, you can have it all. You sit here, you come to my house, and you are always alone. Never any friends, nobody who puts that - that...” The old man’s eyes watered, mouth opening weakly as he pulled in a breath. “That smile on your face, the way your mother did. I haven’t seen that smile in almost thirty years. I do miss it. Oh... how I miss it...”

Emanuel swallowed, closing his eyes as he shook his head. “Father. She didn’t fail to love you because you lacked exuberant wealth at the time. She failed to love you because,” a ghostly smile painted itself over Emanuel’s mouth, “like me, she was pressured into a marriage she never wanted.” He did not look at Daphne as her fork trembled in her hand. “She... loved...”

Emanuel’s breath left him, eyes wide.

_Somebody else._

“Enough.” Mr. Montmorency drew in a long breath, shoulders rising, chin levelled. “ _Enough_. Eat your meal.”

Emanuel ducked his head, picking up his fork.

But he closed his eyes, and he exhaled. “No.”

“I... Pardon me?”

Emanuel looked up. His jaw set as he looked across at his father, seeing a face he was sure would mirror his own one day. “I said no, Father.” He stood up, fingertips on the tablecloth. “I want to speak to you in private.”

The old man laughed. “Really, boy. Can you not wait until we’ve eaten? You’ve already ruined my day enough.”

“Now, Father. The drawing room, if you please.”

He pushed his chair back, letting it squeal on the floor. He strode with forceful purpose to the white doors to the left, both hands on the handles to push them apart. Beyond, there was another dining table, this one not laid but for a newspaper and a vase of dried flowers. Sunlight grazed the lace curtains over the window on the right, casting the small room with a homely ease.

Emanuel stood on the spot, not turning until he heard a second chair scrape back, then the tap of his father’s smart shoes approaching.

“I am astounded,” Mr. Montmorency said, quite coldly. “I never raised such a rude boy, I know that for a fact.”

Emanuel chuckled mirthlessly as he turned around his father, pulling the doors closed behind him so they would have privacy. The wood panels stuttered and clacked together, and then Emanuel met his father’s eye. “Indeed,” he said. “I dare say you didn’t raise me at all.”

Mr. Montmorency lifted his eyebrows in subtle shock. Emanuel had never spoken like this to him, and by every right, he wanted to give Dean the credit for his newfound decisiveness.

Hands pressed flat to the table before him, Emanuel spoke. “I will inform you that I have no desire to marry Daphne Allen. She is a wonderful woman, and I have no doubt you had the best intentions when you selected her as a potential spouse for me, but no, Father. No, I will not marry her.”

“Well, I cannot say I’m impressed, Emanuel. At least afford me a good reason.”

Emanuel rolled his eyes, indifferent to whether or not his father would think it impolite. “I do not love her. At least not romantically.”

The old man was quiet for a little while, shifting just once. “I see,” he said, cautiously.

“I don’t want to repeat your mistakes, and, apparently, we see eye-to-eye on that,” Emanuel said, standing up straight. He showed his father his open hands, raised to his shoulders, a symbolic surrender, before he dropped his hands back to his sides. “Making money is not my goal. It never has been, that was always your goal.”

“I―”

“I’m not finished.” Emanuel raised his chin an inch, feeling taller than ever before. “I can use the money, of course I can. I want to―”

He looked off towards the window, a brief laugh slipping free on his breath. “I want to save monkeys,” he said. “And tigers, because Dean likes tigers. He supposes he would be allergic, but thankfully his charitable nature doesn’t limit itself to―”

“What in God’s good name are you talking about?!”

“If I marry Daphne, if I have - Juliette, a child...” Desperately, Emanuel shook his head. “I don’t have the faith in myself that I need to get through it. I’m not ready, Father. Or - maybe I am, but I don’t want to be.”

“Are you so afraid of pain that you’re too afraid to take the gift God offered you?” Mr. Montmorency said, a dull slyness in his voice, knowing full well that repeating Emanuel’s words back to him would make him weaker, losing his fight already.

“Ha,” Emanuel breathed. He smiled wryly, finally finding his answer. “I’m not afraid of having a family. I’m afraid of sharing my life with a person I find myself unable to love the way _you_ want me to.”

“Since when was love so important to you? I’ve never seen you love one single thing, so what makes you so certain you _do not_ love Daphne?”

Emanuel could have laughed. “I love more in this world than you have ever realised. You never see it in me because it doesn’t suit _your_ view. Your wishes, your will. It’s not God’s will you’re chasing, Father. It’s your own. And I would be happy to see it as such. But that does not mean it intersects with my own desires. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing something to make a dead man happy.”

“Yet you’re always adamant that one thing or the other is ‘what your mother would have wanted’. Try and deny that, son.”

Emanuel began to pace, slowly, eyes down. “That’s different.”

“In what way?”

“It just... is.”

“I see it all, Emanuel. Tell me honestly that you don’t simply use your mother’s so-called ‘ _will_ ’ as an excuse to do what you please.”

Emanuel looked away sharply, head turned, teeth clenched. He couldn’t deny it, but neither would he submit to his father’s plea.

“And there you have it,” Mr. Montmorency said, a triumphant waver in his old voice. “There it is. Emanuel James Montmorency, selfish and unloving. I tell you to marry Daphne because I want you to learn how to play with other children. You never learned.”

“I was never _allowed_ ,” Emanuel growled, a fury curling up his spine, momentarily flexing demon wings beneath his skin, claws in his fingers. Only his father could make him this angry.

Eyes flashing, he thundered, his ire filling the room, “I share! I give. I am a more charitable person than you could ever hope to be. You, hoarding money like a dragon with its gems. Mother never loved that. Mother wanted - she _wanted_ to build people things they didn’t already have, give them shelter, give them aid, not provide what people would get elsewhere were it not for the fact that - ha! - _ha!_ \- you bought out the competition, so they would have nowhere else to go―!”

And in that moment, Emanuel realised where all his fantasies stemmed from. His craving to have Dean _want_ him, _need_ him.

Emanuel was more like his father than he ever knew.

It hurt him. It surely would kill him to know it, just as painfully as cancer was killing his father.

“Son,” the old man said, weary softness in his eyes.

Emanuel sighed, letting the boiling bitterness drain out of him. He couldn’t rage at his father, since he couldn’t allow himself to ruin any part of the time they had left. Like Emanuel, his father was stubborn; there would be no winning here today, nor any day. Their relationship was, and always had been, a stalemate.

“Father, I want to tell you something,” Emanuel said, eyelids fluttering as he lowered his gaze. “And I don’t want you to be angry.”

“I’m past anger, boy. I live for disappointment.”

Emanuel pressed his lips together, watching the rectangle of blurred sunlight waver on the floor. “I...”

“Speak.”

Emanuel frowned, spitting out his confession; “I met someone. Someone that’s not Daphne.”

The old man’s silence detailed his surprise.

Licking his lips, Emanuel continued, “I met... them, in a shop. A flower shop. They’re not... They’re not rich, or powerful. They―”

“How many people are there?”

“Hm?”

Emanuel’s father moved for the first time since coming into this room; he pulled out a chair at the table, and sat down, dragging fingertips over the newspaper to bring it closer. “You say you met a person, but refer to them as ‘they’. Plural.”

“No, I mean ‘they’ as in...” Avoiding a gender pronoun; but how to say it?

“Just finish what you have to say, son, I want to get back to my lunch.”

Emanuel swallowed. “They’re very smart, and adaptable, and...” he smiled, “kind. Caring. H- Handsome.”

The old man grunted, “Hmph! And I thought you were incapable of attraction.”

“That much is true, but only of the people _you_ prefer,” Emanuel said, blandly.

“You mean women.”

Emanuel held his tongue.

Mr. Montmorency raised his eyes to meet Emanuel’s from across the room, staring at him as Emanuel hung halfway in the sun, warmth over his shoulder. Emanuel blinked, hoping to give nothing away.

The old man shook his head. “Finish,” he demanded.

“They... might not be what you hoped Daphne to be. Daphne could run Divine Power, but I don’t think Dean would like to. He loves his flowers too much, he―”

Emanuel shut his eyes.

Lost in the thought of Dean, he’d spilled too much.

“I said finish, child. I never raised you to _stutter_ like you do.”

Emanuel’s breath caught, and he opened his eyes, gaze on the white ceiling.

When he still could not continue, his father stood up, flapping the folded newspaper in his hand, then slapping it back to the table. “You think I care what genitals your beloved has,” he said, so casually that Emanuel’s eyes darted to watch him carefully, on edge. His father turned to him, a chill in his gaze. “Well, you would be quite correct. There is a very good reason Daphne is the person sitting in wait beyond those doors, and not anyone else.”

Emanuel’s stomach was curdling what little food he’d eaten. He never knew his father saw through his decades of secrets so easily, and to have it all revealed now came as a sharp blow to him.

The old man stalked to stand beside Emanuel, facing out the window as Emanuel faced the room. Their shoulders pressed together, the same height, one man crumpling from age and sickness, one standing tall in defiance, his natural slump eradicated for the time being.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out what you did, all those weeks you abandoned me, abandoned God.”

Emanuel turned his chin down. It was true; he thought his secrets would have been safe, so long as he never spoke of them.

“You fornicate like a harlot, and you honestly believed I wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“I did not―”

“Do you remember all of their names?”

Emanuel felt sudden defeat, but still, he forced out, “Of course I do, I―”

“I never raised a liar, either.”

Emanuel looked at his father, seeing those wide eyes layered with sagging wrinkles. The same wrinkles were beginning to show on Castiel’s face. The only days he didn’t notice them were the days he spent time with Dean.

Looking away, Emanuel swallowed. “I never intend to lie. It happens, it spills from me, and I never take it back.”

“Then take it back now.”

It was a struggle, and as Emanuel was well aware, it was meant to be.

He pulled in a heavy breath, eyes to God, eyes to Hell, eyes to his father. “I enjoyed - in the past - a certain amount of gluttony.”

“With other young gentlemen.”

“With... Yes.” He hung his head, not in shame for past acts, but in absolute mortification that he now had to discuss those acts with the one person he’d tried so hard to keep them from. “Yes, Father, I did.”

His father looked unseeing out of the window, a slow wheeze making him curl into himself slightly. Emanuel did not reach to help him, as he knew he would be slapped away.

“I will―” another wheeze, “I will pray for you.”

Emanuel sighed. What good could that do? His mother would never have minded his deviance, and there was so little else that Emanuel was inclined to believe about divinity. If He was real, God had nothing to say on the matter.

“Now tell me about this man,” Mr. Montmorency said, with a slow nod in Emanuel’s direction. The old man’s hands clasped behind his back, and he stood straight once more.

Emanuel licked his lips apart, blinking in thought, watching dust motes drift in the patch of sun he stood in. “He is the most... beautiful creature to ever walk the Earth,” he said.

Perhaps he phrased it that way - as Dean would put it - to _gross the old man out_ , but perhaps it was simply because that was precisely how Emanuel saw Dean.

“I see.”

“I’m in love with him.”

“...I see.”

Silence.

Then the old man chuckled.

And then he laughed, and Emanuel looked carefully at him, frowning in confusion. “Father, what...?”

“Oh, my son,” the old man wheezed, grasping Emanuel’s shoulder in a still-strong grip, holding tight until he could stand, looking Emanuel in the eye. “Oh, your smile. You’re―”

Tears wrinkled the corners of Mr. Montmorency’s eyes, an obvious joy that Emanuel hadn’t seen in years. It shocked him, and he stood there helplessly, waiting until he father could breathe again.

At last, he managed it. “You’re smiling.”

Emanuel smiled at the floor, a sparkle rebounding into his eye, sun reflected off his shoe. “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, Dean taught me how.”

“I dare say there are other things he... taught you.”

Emanuel smirked, feeling a little more relaxed now. “Yes.”

The old man sighed, a hand pressed to his stomach, grunting in pain. Emanuel wished the man was not so stubborn; he wanted to ease that pain as much as he wanted his father to live. Sadly, living would entail nothing but prolonged pain, and as much as he hated to admit it, in the same position, Emanuel would choose exactly the same path as his father.

“Emanuel,” Mr. Montmorency said, clasping his bony hand upon his son’s shoulder. He looked him in the eye, and for the first time today, they shared a close moment without anger, without spite, nor any kind of conflict between them. Or, so Emanuel thought.

“You are to marry Daphne.”

“But―”

“I want a daughter-in-law with financial promise, with the ability to breed, with the―”

“Father!”

“―ability to provide me the care in my last year that nobody else can provide―”

“Father, I can help you! You have a son who wants to help you, and you want some woman?!”

“I want you to pass on our legacy!”

Emanuel shrugged his father’s hand away, baffled. “What legacy? We have no legacy, only death and sadness and fight after fight after fight! This house is a catalyst for loneliness and selfishness; I see nothing but _pain_ here!”

“I see a beautiful estate, Emanuel. Gardens worthy of Eden itself, a willow tree older than the country whose soil we stand upon now. I see a childhood, I see an old man withering with age, alone, suffering because you left me here.”

“I didn’t leave you, you pushed me away,” Emanuel snapped.

“I want you―” his father went on, as if the digression had never happened, “to show me a grandchild before I die.”

Emanuel’s nostrils flared, eyes wide in realisation. Oh, he was going to cry. He was going to _weep_. “Father,” he whispered. “I can’t... I cannot provide that.”

“The selfishness of his house has infected you, I see.”

Emanuel now looked at his father with a sour distaste, tears clearing away. “You think it’s selfish? For me not to have the _ability_ to want to fuck a woman?”

His father blinked in abject horror. Emanuel barely had a second to breathe before his face was struck, bones of a wrinkled hand strong for an instant, turning Emanuel’s body away towards the table. He caught himself with one hand on the newspaper, one on the edge of the table; the newspaper slipped off, and he fell.

Knees to the marble, wrist bruised from the fall, he turned, looking up at the towering shadow above him. The light across his shoulders did not make for the image of an angel, but that of a wraith.

“How _dare_ you speak such filth under this roof.”

“They’re only _words_ , Father,” Emanuel scraped up from the back of his throat. “Curses, bad language; they’re only words. Your hand across my face, how dare _you_.” Emanuel stood in an instant, not allowing himself to show any hurt. “You tell me which of those is more offensive.”

For once in his life, the old man looked humbled.

Emanuel drew in a breath.

“I am... sorry,” Mr. Montmorency said. He swallowed, looked down, away. He closed his eyes, shook his head, as if in awe at his own act. “God forgive me.”

“ _I_ forgive you,” Emanuel said, eyebrows raised. “Whether God feels up to the task, I have no idea.”

“Hmph.”

Emanuel shook his head in utter disdain. The two men in this room were both flawed, each as bad as each other. If he couldn’t forgive, then he had no doubt his father would not either. So Emanuel must be the better man, forgive first.

It only saddened Emanuel to know that this was not the first time he had been struck.

Toxic, it was toxic. But he couldn’t help wanting to care for the man.

“You don’t even know me,” Emanuel said, quietly. He stood a few feet behind his father, ready to leave the room, but not yet going. “I love things, more than you ever understood - I said it before. I have talents you never appreciated; the people I chose to share my company with are people I know you would like too. But you never give anything a chance.”

“Give me one last wish, I said,” the old man muttered. “One last command that you should follow before you’re left alone in the world. Show me your mother’s smile, let me meet a child with your mother’s laughter. And you cannot even give me that, after I gave you everything you ever wanted, ever needed. Even after you spent your whole life seeking to please me.”

“Perhaps,” Emanuel said, “I did not spend my life seeking to please you. Perhaps _you_ spent _my_ life seeking something that could never be. I don’t laugh like Mother did, I can’t smile if I’m not happy. What makes me happy is Dean.”

Mr. Montmorency wheezed a sigh, shoulders sagging. “I will not allow it.”

It was strange... but Emanuel almost thought he heard a tremor in the force of those words. The way his father spoke, it sounded like he forbade Emanuel’s love for Dean just to keep his side of the argument, but somehow... he could have meant the exact opposite.

Emanuel could not be sure. So, he assumed the most obvious meaning, and opened the door to the dining room with a maturing inclination to make it work with Daphne. If all else failed, they could marry and then divorce after the year was over.

Daphne and Juliette had left. Emanuel took a quick look around, and found where they’d gone: out into the gardens, Juliette’s sundress bright in the sun as she flounced among the flowers.

“Emanuel.”

Emanuel turned at his father’s voice. He approached, lifting a hand to stroke Emanuel’s sore cheek. His fingers were papery, soft; they rasped against Emanuel’s stubble. “I am sorry,” he said again. “I went too far.”

Emanuel sighed, leaning out of his reach. “You always do.”

He trotted from the house, down the few brick steps that led away from the open panelled doors. He walked down the winding, gritted path, the gardens ahead, the pond vaguely off to his right. The sun paled the path and made the trees and flowers around it turn saturated and defined; it was exquisite, but currently, Emanuel was too preoccupied to care.

Daphne turned as if she knew he was approaching. She said a few words to Juliette, then made her way towards Emanuel.

A weeping willow tree swayed its boughs in the higher breeze, its leaves dragging ripples into the pond it stood beside. Emanuel directed his feet down the long platform towards the little round pond house: the white roof and carved support beams of the gazebo sat no more than ten feet out into the surface of the water.

A few ducks swam away, startled as Emanuel’s shoes made the wood clomp as he walked along the bordered ledge. He breathed the blitzy air, insects leaving random buzzing lines around him, flying unseen. Once he reached the shade of the gazebo, he moved to the far side; he sighed as he rested his hands on the railing.

“Are you okay?” Daphne asked, her heels making a far sharper sound on the wood than Emanuel’s shoes did. “You were in there so long, and you both were so loud...”

“How much did you hear?”

Daphne chuckled, coming to stand right beside Emanuel, her lacy dress sleeve ruffling on the side of his shirt. “Well, if you count the part where you don’t want to marry me...”

Emanuel hung his head, eyes closing out the sight of the algae-green water, the dragonflies, the ducks.

“It’s... not like I didn’t already know,” Daphne went on, keeping her voice down. “The way you were with Dean...”

Emanuel’s heart thudded harder in his chest, reacting just to the sound of Dean’s name.

“I’m sorry,” he said, truthfully. “If I were... capable―” He screwed up his eyes, one hand over them. His face still burned from his father’s hand. “No, I ought not lie, I need to end that habit.”

He sighed heavily, pulling his hand down his face until it fell from his chin. He stared across the lake, watching trees on the far bank dipping their leaves into the water, like they were toes testing the temperature of a bath.

“I have slept with women,” he said at last. He swallowed, ashamed this time. “I tried it and I didn’t like it. Not because they were women, but because of how it...” He blushed, a reaction which he was equally ashamed of. “How it works.”

Daphne shook her head. “I’m not sure I really understand.”

“I don’t like that I have to, um, put... go - inside.”

Daphne made a breathy sound. “You don’t like―”

“I don’t like penetration,” he said, head down. “I have no inclination to try that ever again. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to do it in order to provide my father with a child within a year.”

A soft gasp let Emanuel know that Daphne wasn’t aware of his father’s wish.

“No... no, you’re right, I’m not prepared to... give him that.”

Emanuel nodded, eyes swaying over the beauty before him. This place was beautiful, it truly was. In his childhood, he had lived nowhere but this place - no schooling beyond the tutors that visited year-round, no friends outside of the other children who attended his father’s charity events. Benny was one such child.

At the thought of Benny, Emanuel gripped the wooden barrier a little harder. The knowledge that he was already travailing against his father’s wishes so vehemently... it made him uncomfortable, but he knew, in the future to come, he would never regret his decisions. Plans were already in motion.

“ _Are_ you all right?” Daphne asked, repeating her earlier question. “You were both so angry.”

Emanuel offered a quick smile, turning his face towards her, then away, before she saw the mark on his cheek. His father loved him despite everything; Emanuel did not want to let anyone see the man’s weaker moments.

“I’m fine,” Emanuel said. That was one lie he was happy to tell.

He basked in the warmth of the summer for a few long moments, sensing Daphne’s perfume mingled with the dust and rot of the pond. It was good, and it was calming, and for the love of everything he held dear, he wished that Dean was here with him.

“I don’t know what to do,” Emanuel said, speaking to nobody, but knowing full well that Daphne would reply.

“What do you _want_ to do?”

“Do you want to get married?” Emanuel asked, ignoring her question for the time being.

Daphne sighed slowly, thinking about her answer. “I did. I was prepared to give you everything your father told me you needed. Patience, mostly. I think he... He assumes you are much dimmer than you are. And you’re not shy, you just don’t enjoy his company.”

Emanuel smiled feverishly, eyes watching the sky. “Somehow, after thirty-eight years, he still sees the scrawny, upset child he once had. In his company I automatically become the boy I was. Subdued and compliant.” He gulped, “But I haven’t been like that for... twenty years or more. I like to be in charge, but so few people let me be. I don’t much like _taking_ control, but I like being given it.”

“Hmm.”

“Dean lets me,” Emanuel added, voice lower than the hum of the early afternoon. “I’m another man when I’m with him. I’m comfortable.”

“He calls you ‘Cas’ sometimes, by mistake.”

Emanuel snorted. “Yeah.”

Daphne didn’t seem to have anything to add, since Emanuel gave her nothing else.

“Daphne?”

“Uh-huh?”

“May I try something?”

Daphne ducked backwards, looking around the carved white beam that separated them. Emanuel peered at her, meeting her eye.

“What is it you want to try, hon?”

Emanuel swiped his lower lip with his tongue. “May I kiss you?”

Daphne smiled slowly, coloured eyelids batting as she considered the request. “If you’d like.”

Emanuel dipped his head in thanks, and moved to stand before her, breathing to calm himself. He’d never felt comfortable kissing Daphne before, but this time he was ready; it was on his terms. He had both taken control, and had it given. He could do this.

He closed his eyes and leaned in, putting his lips to Daphne’s. He could feel her lipstick - smell it, even - and he could feel the wideness of her mouth, the tiniest slip of her tongue against his lip. She was soft, he was tentative, and as he turned his head―

He pulled back, gasping briefly. “I... I felt something,” he whispered in awe. It was like a flicker, a rolling spark of a cigarette lighter inside him. He sighed, moving in to kiss once more.

This time he surged; he filled Daphne’s mouth with his tongue, a hand going to her waist, another sliding to touch her loosely-held hand, twining his fingers around hers.

She murmured a soft sound of enjoyment, her eyelashes tickling his cheek the same way Dean liked to do...

Castiel broke away, a demented guilt rising in his body; cold, hot - sickness.

He panted, hand against his mouth, shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “No, I can’t... I can’t enjoy that...”

He looked over at Daphne, seeing her smudged lipstick, her surprised expression. He gulped, upset that he tasted her saliva in his own mouth.

“You kiss well,” he said, hoping he hadn’t offended her. “Only, I’m... in love with―”

“Dean.” She said the name with a gentle resignation. “Yes, I know.”

Castiel leaned his inner biceps on the barrier, his arms outstretched over the lake, head down between his shoulders. He sighed, watching the lake edge ripple at the border of the gazebo.

He still didn’t know where to go from here.

✿

Monday morning still felt like Saturday night to Dean. Ever since Castiel had left him on the rooftop, it felt like the hours that passed numbered in the thousands, and just as simply felt like no more than minutes. He’d sung every song he knew ever, danced with everyone whose path he crossed in the apartment. He’d even tried petting the kittens, and had to admit, despite Lucifer’s claw marks and the remaining rash on his hand, it had still been worth it.

But for the first time ever, that Monday morning, Castiel entered the shop and it didn’t improve his day.

“You’re _WHAT_?!”

“It seemed like the obvious choice to make, given the circumstances,” Castiel insisted, blinking rapidly. He seemed more shocked by Dean’s reaction than Dean thought ideal; Dean began to wonder if Cas even liked him as much as Dean liked him back. Given what Cas was telling him now, it seemed a likely case.

“And what are the circumstances, exactly?!” Dean snarled, perfectly rational anger seeping out of him from unexpected places. His hands were set flat on the desk, his chest heaving, forehead tense with his deep frown.

Castiel blinked some more, looking away, like he couldn’t bear to see Dean so unnerved by his news. “My father. He’s...” He shook his head. “You cannot tell anyone, the share prices will plummet if news gets out.”

As he took a breath in, he looked back to Dean, meeting his eye with a soul-deep sadness in him. “My father is dying. He has roughly a year to live, since he refuses any treatment that might help him.”

Dean slowly sat down in his stool, eyebrows rising as his immediate instinctive anger abated.

“And,” Castiel continued, sucking on his lower lip for a second, “He wants me to have a child, have his genes passed on - or, my mother’s, I suppose. He loved her very much, but she never loved him to anywhere near the same degree.”

Dean felt his blood turning cold, shock slowly setting in. He’d thought it was all going so well, and now this...

“Cas,” Dean whispered. “But, Cas - why.... _why_ ―?”

Castiel sighed, hands latched to the other side of the desk, the belt of his trenchcoat looped between his fingers where he’d been fiddling with it, nervous fingers, nervous heart. “His dying wish is to see me marry. I very much hope the childrearing is optional, since I... can’t.”

“You’re infertile?”

“No, I’m gay.”

Dean was momentarily taken aback. “You realise there’s other options for baby-making than sticking your ding-dong up a girl’s hoo-ha, right?”

Castiel let out a fast breath, face crumpling as he glanced away for maybe the fiftieth time since starting his speech. “If I were to have a baby, everyone involved ought to be family. It would be Daphne who would bring a baby to term, in other words, but Daphne is not going to―”

Castiel growled suddenly, a recognisable anger filling his expression. He slammed his hands on the desk, then swept himself away, starting to pace the shop. “I don’t wish to discuss it! Me having a baby with _anyone_ is out of the question, I simply do not want to parent a child. Not to mention the plethora of other issues around myself and impregnation. There are so many times I feel like a child myself, and that is entirely the fault of my father. He gave me everything - _spoiled_ me - and I never learned anything.”

“Okay, CliffsNotes lesson on life, right now: you’re making a mistake, don’t do it.”

Castiel frowned at the roses, then turned to glare at Dean. Dean saw Castiel take one look at the sad face he was making, and that glare softened.

“Dean, I... I don’t want to see his last wish go ungranted. If anything, I could give him the first part of what he wants.”

“So you’re saying,” Dean started, “that he wants you to marry a woman, whether you’re happy with that or not.”

“Yes,” Castiel said, eyes shifting. “He insisted that he wanted me to be happy, but I’m not sure he understands the fact that I would not be happy if I didn’t marry y― someone who is not a woman.”

Dean ran his hand down his face, groaning in despair. “Cas, you do _realise_ what he’s doing to you, right?”

Castiel gave a bodily shrug, trenchcoat flapping.

“You gotta see it. You’re basically telling me that he values _his_ happiness for the rest of his life, over _your_ happiness for the rest of yours, which, at a guess, would be significantly longer.”

“Dean, would you really deny a dying man his last wish?”

Dean scoffed. “One day you’ll have a dying wish too, and it’s gonna be ‘I wish I didn’t do this shit’. And somehow that translates as ‘he wants you to be happy’?! If a dying man was telling me to screw someone I didn’t want to screw, then fuck yes, I’d deny my way down the middle of Egypt.”

“I don’t think that’s―”

“And if it was my own daddy telling me that? Then I’d be long gone already, knowing now what I never knew back then. Parents who have their kids’ lives planned out ain’t good for the progress of the world, you know? They’re always a generation behind.”

Castiel puffed out a destructive sigh, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets, eyes on the desk rather than Dean. Dean watched him, then slowly slid around the desk, going to lean his ass on its edge, facing Castiel.

“Either way,” Dean said, quietly, “I’ve never thought you marrying her was the right way to go.”

Castiel stayed silent.

Eventually, he approached Dean, sidling up to him, his right shoulder almost touching Dean’s. “The wedding will be planned for October,” he muttered.

“That’s two months from now.”

Castiel gulped, staring out at the street.

Dean didn’t come all this way just to have his hopes crushed and his heart broken like this. Then again, maybe he did. The universe never played favourites with him, so why start now? He might as well just accept his fate.

“Dean...”

“Right here, buddy.”

Castiel leaned to his right, so their heads knocked together. Dean nuzzled into him, cheek shifting against Castiel’s hair. He smelled like oak, or walnuts - maybe a little of grease and dandruff, but he smelled good. Dean put a tiny kiss to the side of his head, silent, so Castiel would never know it happened.

And yet, he muttered again, “Dean?”

“Still here.”

Castiel sighed, his hand sliding unseen up Dean’s tummy, under his apron. Dean felt Castiel’s thumb dip into his navel, pulling his shirt as he kept moving up. Castiel turned his head down enough to watch his arm shift under the apron, but then that arm dropped away, leaving a weightlessness over Dean’s skin.

“Dean, I want to kiss you.”

Dean felt a very real pain. “Cas,” he whispered back, shaking his head. _Anything but this._

“Dean,” Castiel said again, resting himself snugly into the dips of Dean’s body, arms around his hips, a thigh between Dean’s, chin over his shoulder. “Kiss me. Please.”

“You just told me you’re marrying Daphne in two months. You’re _engaged_. I’m not - I’m not gonna make out with you.”

Fuck, it hurt. Right down to the soles of his feet.

“Dean...” Castiel’s voice was breaking up, his closed eyes pressed into Dean’s shoulder, arms clutching him. He shook, a soft sob racking his body. “Deannn...”

Dean cupped the back of Castiel’s neck, feeling tears prickle his eyes. Hearing Castiel cry was as bad as hearing Sammy cry: the worst thing in the world, and the world was ending.

Castiel whimpered, and Dean felt hot tears drip under the neck of his t-shirt. The hands on his back pressed tighter, his body pushing to Dean, needing to get closer.

Dean made no sound, but he cried too. Wrapped up in the man he loved, ripped away even while he was still so near.

“Dean,” Castiel cried, so weakly that it came out as no more than a whisper. “Dean, please, please kiss me.”

Dean shook his head. “If you marry that girl, then you... you love her properly, you hear me? Nobody on the side. Not me, not anyone. Unless you and her end it, you and me―” Dean’s breath stopped, and he pushed the last words out without air. “You ‘n me are through.”

Castiel curled into him, legs shaking, hands grasping Dean’s t-shirt with desperate hands. He sobbed so intensely that he barked, and Dean held him tighter, as tight as he possibly could without crushing him completely.

They stayed there weeping like utter manbabies for some indeterminable amount of time. Dean heard someone open the shop door, see what was happening, then retreat, and he blessed that person; he didn’t want a second to be lost from the moments he could still have with Castiel in his arms.

When the time finally came to pull apart, he saw the red rims around Castiel’s eyes, his pinked nose. He wondered if he looked the same, since his throat was sore, and he could taste his own tears in his saliva. He’d been so focused on how much he wanted Castiel to stay where he was, and hadn’t been paying much attention to how he himself was reacting.

Castiel’s lip wobbled, and he passed a hand over his face, wiping away dried tears.

“I - I - I’d... I’d like some flowers, before I leave,” Castiel said, tiny blinks devolving into no more than closed eyes. “Something beautiful. Something made by my angel.”

Dean dragged his hand over Castiel’s heart, feeling it beat, _ba-boom_ , _ba-boom_.

“Sure, Cas, anything,” Dean said, hand moving to curl against Castiel’s neck as he passed by. “What kind?”

Castiel let out a shaky, shaky breath. “The kind that says ‘goodbye’.”

Dean almost crushed a lily. “How... how permanent a goodbye?”

“If I will always feel about you the way I feel now―”

“And you can’t cheat on Daphne.”

“―then, goodbye forever.”

Dean swallowed, pulling his lips between his teeth, blinking back another burst of unspilled tears. God, he was such a girl, he wasn’t _meant_ to fall so deeply. This is what happens, he thought. _This_ is what happens when you fall in love.

This was how he hit the ground. He thought he wouldn’t this time, but he did. Inevitable.

He made a funeral bouquet, a sad wreath of soft white and green. It seemed fitting.

And then he made a splendid white wedding bouquet. It seemed equally as fitting, if perhaps ironic.

Lastly, he made a flower crown. Castiel stood there and watched him work, watched his fingers skimming flowers and turning them into a circle, without the aid of tape or wire. It was designed to fall apart.

Red flowers. All of them red.

Roses.

He set it on Castiel’s head, crowning him a prince of a realm that was soon to be forgotten.

Dean leaned in and kissed the very tip of Castiel’s nose. He heard the click of saliva as Castiel parted his lips, but Dean did not indulge him, no matter how badly they both wanted the comfort.

Castiel paid for the bouquets, but Dean insisted on giving him the crown for free - it didn’t seem right to charge him; it would be like having a criminal pay for his own hanging.

The red roses matched the lines around Castiel’s eyes.

Dean put his hand under Castiel’s chin, softly brushing him. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Castiel turned his eyes down, brimming with tears again. With the faintest of smiles, he nodded, then turned for the door, arms full of flowers, wearing his crown proudly.

Dean opened the door for him.

Castiel stopped in the doorway, but said nothing, didn’t make eye contact, just breathed out and walked on.

The ivy over the door to the shop had snapped somehow, and Dean hadn’t noticed until now. He reached a hand up to touch it, but it only fell down limp again. Its green leaves would wilt on one side, and Dean didn’t know which, since both ends were attached to the wall.

If he could name one end Cas and one end Dean...

Well.

He shut the door, listening to the bell clink.

He was the dead end.


	13. Hello, Honeybee

That week was the most miserable week Dean had ever had in San Francisco.

The Jim Beam ran out by Tuesday afternoon, the Jack Daniels was gone by Wednesday evening, and Charlie’s backup stash of cigarettes mysteriously vanished, one by one by one.

The kittens couldn’t even conjure a smile for him any more, not even the one he’d provisionally named Honeybee.

Benny didn’t even bother asking. Castiel must have seen Benny in the meantime, so when he got to see Dean, Benny had already heard the story. He turned up on Thursday evening, bearing more whiskey, and a small airplane-ration bottle of vodka, which Dean swiped off the table before anyone else could claim it.

He fell asleep on the couch mid-evening, _Sesame Street_ playing in the background. Benny and Gabriel kept their voices down as they talked off to the side, and neither of them suggested drawing on their friend with Sharpie, which really, said as much about their knowledge of Dean’s insecurities regarding his personal appearance as it did about the strength of their friendships.

Benny left sometime around eight, informing Gabriel, Charlie and Sarah that he had his daughter waiting at home. Everyone wished everyone else a good night, and with one last sympathetic look over at Dean, Benny let himself out.

✿

Charlie had checked every damn number in every damn phone book, searching for the elusive Daphne Allen. Tracking people down was hard without the use of the internet - damn leaving her laptop at home for the first time in the history of ever. And damn Dean for not having Daphne’s number in his phone already, too.

Enlisting Sam’s help (i.e. dragging him out of bed after he crashed post-lecture), she had him google Daphne, bringing up a San Francisco stockbroker firm with a flashy website that offered next to no helpful information. With nothing more than Daphne’s company number, Charlie decided it would do, and she set to work.

Calling the number got her voicemail. No use; Daphne needed the message _now_.

Calling the company’s secretary would allow Charlie the chance to slip into a fake accent and ask some silly questions to get her info. But did she take that chance? No. She passed the phone to Sam the second the secretary answered the phone.

Sam did the accent and asked the _smart_ questions, and within a few minutes - maybe less, holy crap - they had Daphne’s cell number, home number, and a whole bunch of curious wonderments regarding how lacking the security was nowadays.

Charlie was brave enough to do the next part. She sat at the foot of Sam and Sarah’s bed, tapping her fingers against her thigh until Daphne picked up.

“Hiiiii,” Charlie said, before Daphne got to say a word.

“ _Hello, who’s this?_ ”

“Charlie.”

“ _That’s... okay, who’s Charlie?_ ” Daphne was smiling, amused.

“Friend of Dean Wesson’s,” Charlie said, firmly. “I’m here to change the fates and cross some wires, so to speak.”

“ _That sounds vaguely ominous. Should I be worried?_ ”

“That depends. Are you glad Dean is drinking enough to deep fry his liver and has taken up chain smoking?”

“ _Oh, good heavens. He’ll get lung cancer._ ”

“That’s what he told _me_ last week,” Charlie said.

“ _Um, but - no. No, I’m not glad, not at all. Is that all the result of―_ ”

“Your engagement? Yeah. Mostly. It’s a lot of things, he was a plain old misery-guts before this, but now he’s an overland Squidward.”

“ _I understood what that meant!_ ”

“Awesome.” Charlie cleared her throat. “Uh, so, I was wondering...” She glanced behind her, seeing Sam watching her with puppy eyes, hopeful and somewhat beggarly. “If you were busy tomorrow night.”

✿

The theatre show started _late_. It was already dark by the time Charlie and Dean walked over there, and they still had ten minutes until the curtain call, whatever a curtain call was. Dean had no knowledge of the theatre - and no knowledge of what play they were here to see, either.

This place was small, showing off some kind of independent theatre group that jumped from venue to venue each time they performed a play. The appearance of the venue Charlie had dragged Dean to was really very dramatic, which was probably the point. The walls inside were old, the building still standing after over a hundred years.

A radiator warmed the hallway, where twenty other people stood, babbling and burbling in pre-show conversation. Coats were slung over arms, all guests here tonight thirty-something, dressed smart-casual.

Dean wore his brown leather jacket, the newer one, over the same thing he’d worn at work that day. Charlie had a delicate Victorian lace shirt over a knee-length skirt that flared from her hips, and Dean had made sure to tell her she looked great. He may have been buzzed out of his mind for most of the past week, but he still recognised a nice outfit when he saw one.

Standing amongst the other audience members now, he strained towards the door through which the smell of alcohol poured, sensing a drinks bar - but Charlie held him back, warning him quite rightly that he’d end up needing to use the bathroom halfway through the first act.

His eyes barely left the door, however, pining after something amber-coloured, tangy, sharp enough to burn his throat.

He got fed up of waiting for the doors to open to allow them to their seats, so he snatched Charlie’s pack of cigarettes and her lighter from her shoulder purse while she was reading a poster tacked to the wall. He knocked her elbow, told her quietly that he’d be outside, and he took his leave, pretending he didn’t see Charlie’s puppy eyes. She and Sam were not biologically related, but they sure as heck had that expression in common. Cas too. But Dean wasn’t thinking about him.

The street outside seemed clearer, lighter. The night swallowed the sky above, but the road before him and the sidewalk he stood on were all bathed in shop lights and colours that came from nowhere, the nightlife of San Francisco just starting out for tonight.

He lit his cigarette, savouring the snap of the lighter as he flicked it closed.

The thick paper between his lips was familiar, but that didn’t mean he wanted it there. He hated how everything was affecting him this week. It was relapse after relapse, and he just wished - hoped... _prayed_ \- that he wouldn’t hit a trigger that had him clawing for his even worse vices.

The fact that he was already thinking about the bad stuff made him worried. He’d not yet confided with any of his friends, but he was sure they’d look out for him if he did fall back on two years of technical sobriety.

He just didn’t want to tell them how bad he was getting. They already knew he was travelling the old road of self-destruction, so he was only waiting for the moment he’d come home and find they’d staged an intervention. Secretly he hoped they’d stage it before he tripped, not after.

Smoke filled his lungs, and he let the cloud of it haze in his mind, fuzzing over his glasses lenses. It was bitter, ugly, and it made him want to hurl. Everything made him want to hurl.

He stood staring into nothing as he finished the cigarette, hand locked over an elbow, smoke blown downwards through pursed lips. His lips were so chapped that the cigarette clung to the sticky wet part inside his lip each time he put it to his mouth, and as he crushed the stub to the sidewalk, he ran his tongue over his lip, feeling skin missing.

He wandered back inside, crab-stepping other people, meeting only a few people’s eyes. He could smell their perfumes, their aftershaves, easily picking out fellow smokers by the way their staleness lingered around them like it did for him. He was disappointed with himself, still feeling weak every time he felt any kind of need.

Dean found Charlie again. Her red hair stood out, cascading down her back with gentle curls. She was in conversation with another woman, and Dean wondered to himself what the nature of that conversation was, whether it was casual or flirty. As far as he knew, Gilda was still an item for Charlie.

But as Dean pushed into Charlie’s side, pressed between other guests, he realised who this other woman was.

“Dean,” Daphne said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “So nice to see you again.”

“Uh, hi,” Dean said, licking his lips again, overly conscious that he smelled of smoke. Could she smell it on his breath, was he too close to her? He could barely move away, there were too many people packed into the small hallway.

“Charlie invited me here tonight,” Daphne said, with a small nod, and a smile shot in Charlie’s direction. “I’ve never seen this play, I’ve heard it’s a classic.”

“Hm.” Dean’s gaze panned across the other people around him, wondering if Castiel was here.

“Dean,” Charlie tutted, patting Dean on the arm. “Listen to people when they talk to you, will you?”

Dean gazed at Daphne apologetically, pushing his glasses further up his face. Castiel wasn’t here, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset.

He wanted to see him. But like the smell of smoke for cigarettes, like the sight of a glass tumbler for whiskey, the sight of powdered sugar for heroin, Castiel’s face was a trigger. Dean couldn’t see blue eyes without wanting stubble under his fingers, missing what it felt like to laugh.

“Ah, at last,” Daphne muttered, head turned to watch the first trickle of people glide in through the doors at the end of the hall. People were being led to their seats, and Dean’s little troupe was going to be one of the last to make it to the door.

They inched along, shuffling, shuffling. Dean watched the back of other people’s heads, listened to how individual people chuckled at each other differently. He could smell mulled wine.

Charlie looked over her shoulder more often than Dean could understand. He didn’t know whether to appreciate her concern that he might duck into the bar if she wasn’t watching, or wonder if she was looking for something else.

As it turned out, it was the latter.

Dean smelled Castiel before he heard him. He knew that soap, he knew that basic and well-settled woodsy scent of his skin. The breeze from the street grazed the scent over Dean’s shoulder, and even as he faced the other way, he ducked his head, smiling.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean muttered, staring at the bare floorboards under his feet, which were dotted with splodges of old gum - flat, blackened, and seemingly sprinkled with glitter.

Dean didn’t feel much. It felt so easy just to let everything go, all thoughts on everything. Castiel’s shoulder touched to his own as they shuffled together. Dean had been lifted of burden.

“You look terrible,” Castiel muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and Dean barely glanced at him, just about seeing the mischievous twinkle in Castiel’s eye. It wasn’t concern he showed Dean, but exactly the kind of acceptance he needed: yeah, he looked like shit, but he didn’t want anyone to fuss about it, since there was so little that could be done. Right now, he laughed.

“Yeah.” Dean knocked his side against Cas. “Yeah, had a crap week. You?”

Castiel shrugged. His hand stroked the back of Dean’s, even though Dean’s hand was inside his pocket. Sensational bliss ran in Dean’s veins, but it was short-lived; they reached the door, and Charlie pulled out four tickets, showing the woman at the entrance. Castiel’s hand was gone from Dean’s, shifted to his own pocket now.

“I take it you didn’t know what to expect,” Castiel said to Dean, as they walked into the dark behind Charlie and Daphne. The floor sloped upward, and the room ahead split into two; seats were raised like bleachers on either side, all facing the blocky stage before them. “I was told,” Castiel went on, turning to the left and following the others, “that this was a date for myself and Daphne.”

“I was told there’d be free pie,” Dean moped, heaving a sigh as they reached the far wall on the left, and turned left again, climbing stairs so they could reach their allocated seats on the bleachers. The dark ceiling got closer and closer, and the lights from the back of the theatre spun stars into Dean’s eyes, flashing in slow motion.

The hubbub in the room was endless. Most people were seated already.

They reached their short row, which was situated right in front of the light operator’s table; Dean could see the guy’s sneakers, scuffed and stained, while his face was hidden behind a computer screen.

“Uh, okayyy...” Charlie said vaguely, looking at the tickets, then waving an arm to indicate where the four of them would be sitting. “What order should we sit?”

Dean knew perfectly well that if he was to avoid sniffing glue, it wasn’t a good idea to sit next to an open bottle of it. So to speak.

“I’ll go in first,” he said. “Charlie next to me, Daphne after. Cas cas sit on the end, more leg room.”

He didn’t look at Castiel as he snuck past, but he got the impression his face fell faster than a man leaping out of an airborne plane. Charlie didn’t stop him going in first, though, and after some hesitation, Dean heard her shoes grating on the seat stacks, following him down the row.

He sat, taking his leather jacket off. It was pleasantly warm in here, and cosy; there were a lot of people, more than he thought there were in the hallway. Gusty fumes of wine carried to him, and his mouth watered. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now...

Charlie bumped Dean in the side, leaning into his space to whisper, “Here.” She put something into his hand, small and hard, papery. Not a cigarette; too flat. “Courtesy of Cas. He found it in his pocket, thought you could use it.”

Dean lifted it, unable to see in the extremely low light. A quick sniff told him it was mint gum.

“I didn’t have garlic, I swear,” Dean said.

Charlie chuckled. “No. But you did smoke half a pack of death sticks today.”

Dean grunted, unwrapping the gum and shoving it in his mouth. The first squash between his teeth was heavenly; he loved destroying that perfect rectangular cut, letting the neat diagonal grooves in it fit to the shape of his teeth.

Maybe Cas knew what he was doing, in handing Dean the gum. Dean straight away felt less need to go for wine, just because he had something to grind his jaw into now.

The bubbling audience bubbled quieter as the lights dimmed to nothing.

There was no curtain to hide the backstage here, but the lights showed only what the audience needed to see: three beautiful women, worthy of being called sirens - mouths opening as they began to sing.

Dean knew the song.

“Holy shit,” he said under his breath. He leaned against Charlie, hissing at her; “ _Little Shop of Horrors_?!”

“Oh, you know it?”

Dean looked at her in a sunken kind of disbelief. She smirked, and gave herself away: she knew perfectly well what the significance of this musical was to Dean. He meant to watch it with Cas.

Dean sighed and slumped into his seat properly, getting comfortable. He wished he’d gotten snacks from the minibar - and now, he regretted sticking Cas so far away from him. He wanted to whisper stupid quips about the show while they watched, point out his favourite bits, sing along so nobody else but Castiel could hear.

The first half of the play passed much the same way for him as the movie adaption had: engaging enough, but he was too distant from Cas for the show to be properly enjoyed.

The most direct awareness he had of the other man was when the bleachers began to rattle. He thought nothing of it until the light operator guy leaned over his desk, his loud whisper superseding the warbling song of the actress playing Audrey. “Cut that out, buddy, you’re rocking the lights,” came the scold, and then the guy sat back down.

Dean leaned his elbows on his thighs, looking along the short aisle. He saw Daphne move to lay her hand on Castiel’s thigh - and the rumbling stopped under Dean’s feet. Castiel’s leg had been jumping something crazy.

The fidgeting stopped and started a few times over the next hour. Each time, Dean saw Daphne touch Castiel, reminding him not to get so agitated. Dean didn’t know what was bothering him specifically, but if he had to chance a guess, it was the same thing that was bothering Dean. Too far away.

When the audience laughed - when Dean laughed - he heard Castiel’s low chuckle, even through the blare of other people’s voices. He loved that sound, he felt like he could pick it out in a crowd during a shuttle takeoff.

On stage, the actor playing Seymour suffered his woes with the man-eating plant. The giant bastard of a thing sang a pretty convincing plea, suggesting to Seymour that he feed it Audrey’s abusive boyfriend. Upon confronting the boyfriend with a gun, Seymour instead found the guy overdosing on gas. And then Seymour had a dead man on his hands.

Dean spat his gum back into the wrapper, shoving it in his pocket. This play was meant to be funny, and it was, but only up to a point. Dean had been in that situation. Sans the man-eating plant, of course, but he knew how hard it was to dispose of a body. And he knew how it felt to have someone there, right _there_ , whispering that it was important that the bad guy dies.

He watched the last part of the first act through split fingers, hands over his eyes, under his glasses. It wasn’t gory, watching a fake plant on stage gobble up a body, but it still made Dean want to hurl, like everything else did.

This story wasn’t as disturbing when he was a kid.

The room darkened, then the house lights went back up, signalling the intermission. The murmuring audience all stood up in patches, laughter and communicative yelps passed between the seats.

Dean sat for a little while, waiting until Charlie finished talking to Daphne, turning to him instead.

“Hey, you wanna get a snack?” she asked.

Dean shrugged, tilting his head. “Sure, why not.” He may as well put something solid in his stomach, he’d barely eaten today.

They clattered out of the bleachers, slowly, Dean taking his jacket with him, even though the women left their coats in their seats. He didn’t like parting with his things.

The crowd milled its way to the hallway, and Dean stuck his hands in his pockets, eyeing some people as they stepped outside into the street. Maybe they were going for a smoke, maybe to get something from a nearby diner. They had about fifteen minutes until the play resumed.

“Through here,” Daphne called, a hand touching Dean’s leather sleeve. He followed her further down the hall, through a thin nook of a door, black shutters hooked open. Towards the rear of the building there was a snack bar, with a candy stand on the right, where a hot guy with slim cheeks and dark skin served a blonde woman some peanuts. On the left side of the tiny room, a few diner tables were built into the area, like the restaurant from last week, but brighter, more cramped, clearly made on a budget.

Daphne touched Dean’s arm again, eyes flicking to Castiel, who hung towards the back, looking around himself in interest.

“Come sit with me,” Daphne said to Dean, tugging on his wrist ever so gently.

Dean turned his head, hearing Charlie speak to Castiel, saying much the same thing to him.

Oh fuck, Dean thought. Here was the intervention, and it wasn’t even about the booze.

Dean followed Daphne, knowing he probably had no choice. A few of these tables were taken already, young couples and old couples alike sharing conversations as they snacked. Their eyes cast in Dean’s direction as he edged past, his jeans snagging on the too-close tables. He smiled apologetically, and crumpled into a bare booth at the far end.

Posters adorned the walls, lopsided, peeling, touched with scribbles that Dean was more inclined to call art than grafitti.

“Now,” Daphne said, sitting herself down and placing a hand over the bangles on her wrist. “About Emanuel.”

✿

“Dean’s killing himself,” Charlie said, voice hushed, undeniably concerned. “Sam and I don’t know what to do. You can see how he looks tonight. He’d been like that all week. He’s not sleeping, he’s barely eating―”

“He’s done this before, hasn’t he?” Castiel asked, eyes to the table. “This self-abuse isn’t new for him.”

Charlie took a breath, then let it go. “Did he tell you?”

Castiel looked up. “About what? Drug use, smoking addiction, that he’s alcoholic? Or about his... past?”

Charlie closed her mouth, sucking on her lower lip. “So you know.”

Castiel shook his head. “Benny didn’t tell me, Dean hasn’t either. But I’m not oblivious to it, whatever it is.”

Charlie hummed, running the back of her fist over her cheeks in thought. “It’s not new. He hit a wall this week, it’s like he let himself sink back into... whatever he was, five years ago. I never knew him then, I’ve only known him three months. But Sarah and Sam, they were there at the time, so they know. Benny knows. He put sleeping pills in flavoured water last night, Dean downed the lot and thank god, he actually got some sleep for once.”

Castiel clutched his own hand, thumb pressed to the lacquered edge of the table. He felt woozy - guilty. This was his fault.

Charlie wrapped soft fingers over his wringing hands. “Don’t blame y―”

“But it _is_ my fault,” Castiel snapped, under his breath. “I knew how Dean felt - still feels - and I knew it would hurt him when I told him my plans.” He gulped down sugary air, eyes turning to examine a coffee stain in the wood under his hand. “I was stupid. I thought I felt more for him than he did for me. I honestly... I didn’t think it would go like this.”

Charlie squeezed his hand. “The fact remains that you didn’t know the whole story.”

“What is the whole story?”

Charlie shook her head, her free hand pressing a finger to her lips; _shhh_. “Only Dean or Benny can tell you.”

Castiel withdrew his hands from under Charlie’s, sliding them to his lap.

“You need to take him tonight,” Charlie said. Castiel looked at her quickly, saw her eyes were cast down, a sadness in her face. “I’ve tried to get him to sleep at my place, where it’s quieter, but he keeps saying he needs to be with Sam, to look after his little brother. But it’s―” she laughed an unhappy sound, “abundantly clear: it’s not like that. Sam’s been cooking for him, tidying up after him. The world’s flipping some tables, and Dean’s too out of it to notice.”

Castiel felt like crying. Tears simmered in his lower eyelids, but he wouldn’t let them fall.

“Take him home,” Charlie said again, softness in her voice. “Just look after him, he needs you.”

“I wanted that,” Castiel murmured, hollow inside. “I wanted him to need me, depend on me for something, but it wasn’t this. God―” he cupped a hand over his face, feeling a single tear drag its way down a finger. “Fuck, it wasn’t meant to be this way.”

“Just prove to him that he fell in love with the right person this time. Don’t leave him.”

“I have to leave him.”

“You’re not gone yet,” Charlie said, firmly. “Just because you’re getting married, don’t let that stop you loving him.”

Castiel laughed mirthlessly, eyes turning to the speckled ceiling, watching the world squirm in his tears. “At this point, I don’t think anything he could do would stop me from loving him.”

Charlie was quiet for a bit, then she let free a shocked breath, just as Castiel made eye contact with her.

“Wow,” she said, blinking. “Wow, that is... pretty intense.”

Castiel set his jaw, swallowing as he closed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve been searching for him my entire life.”

“Then,” Charlie said, sliding forward to grip Castiel’s arm under her bony hand, “don’t lose him.”

✿

Dean slunk back towards the theatre seating, head filled with Daphne’s words. It had been so cryptic - she’d gone on and on about things Dean had once said to Castiel: he needed to let someone take care of him, let someone feed him, let someone else do the hard work for once.

Okay, maybe not so cryptic. But Dean didn’t want to even consider what she was suggesting. His primary purpose in life was to get Sam through university. With Sam out there fighting for the world, Dean would know he’d made up for the bad stuff he did. In the meantime, this suffering was his penance, and he felt like he was ruining it by enjoying anything. He didn’t deserve goodness.

His breath stuttered as he mulled that thought over.

_Don’t deserve it._

That was the thinking of an older Dean. The one who wasn’t clean yet, still buried under lies and secrets and money that wasn’t his, working skills he could only use the bad way.

He knew the signs. He needed help.

But he was Dean Wesson, Dean Smith, Dean Singer, Dean Winchester. It didn’t matter which Dean he was. They were all the same man underneath; insecure, a broken warrior, a bad son. The kind of man who didn’t ask for help.

He sank into his seat, feeling the leather of his jacket crumple at his lower back.

He knew he had people there, people who would do anything he needed them to do in order to help him, and they would never complain about it, because they _loved_ him. And yet, he would hide and keep his secrets. He was a coward like that. He figured it didn’t hurt anybody but him, and he deserved it anyway.

“Dean,” came a low voice.

Dean looked up, seeing Castiel standing beside him in the aisle, taking off his trenchcoat. Dean lowered his eyes, poking at his glasses.

“Dean, may I sit next to you?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, whatever. Don’t really mind.”

The crowd was slowly trickling back into the shadowy room, while the man at the desk behind them messed with the spotlights. The metal ticked and clanked behind Dean’s head, and he listened to it, finding a rhythm in it that soothed him.

He was still buzzing inside. As he felt the warmth of Castiel’s thigh against his own, the buzz faded. He became honey inside, sweet and warm, created with care by hundreds of thousands of bees, and they flew away, leaving him golden.

He let out a tiny breath, eyes on Daphne and Charlie as they made their way to their seats, each with a polystyrene cup of hot nuts in hand, Charlie with a can of cola.

Castiel put his hand on Dean’s knee, so... so gentle.

Dean was confused by the touch. It didn’t tell him Castiel wanted something, it didn’t say he was looking to regain the passion they shared in the weeks gone by. It was not even for comfort, not for either of them. It was just a touch. Like he’d rested his hand on Dean’s knee, like any person would do with a friend.

It eased Dean. To a point where he could have lain back and slept, sinking with the feel of the pads of Castiel’s hand upon his leg.

Castiel stood up, and the hand went.

He gave Charlie back her coat, since he’d been sitting on it. And Castiel sat down again, taking off his suit jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves up.

Dean watched his fingers move, scrolling the fabric until his pointy elbows were bare, the muscles of his forearms bristling with hair that prickled in the air, cool now he wasn’t wearing his jacket.

As soon as he was done, Castiel looked over at Dean and he smiled. That smile was instant; he had no need to think about it, nor school his face to achieve it.

Dean didn’t know what was happening between them any more, but if he were to take a guess, they were good. Their spark rekindled. _Back in Black._

The play resumed in a matter of minutes, and the full audience dimmed their muttering once more. Dean tossed back a few of Charlie’s peanuts, but otherwise, didn’t seek to fill his empty stomach.

The scent of mulled wine didn’t even register to him, because he could smell Castiel now; a little sweat gone unwashed from the day, heat from his thighs letting the air fill with a dangerous musk.

Dean watched Seymour and Audrey confess their feelings, their boss devoured by the now-famous plant, Seymour realising the plant was insatiable and a threat to humankind, blah blah. Dean hadn’t quite lost interest in the story, but Castiel sure was distracting him.

As Castiel had done for him, Dean put his hand on Castiel’s knee. Castiel’s body shifted in his seat, not turning to look at him, but aware of the touch.

Dean sought more; more comfort, more contact, more anything. That hand drew down Castiel’s inner thigh, slower than Dean’s breaths, the wrinkles of his slacks bunching under Dean’s fingers.

His legs were so hot. They could have been steaming, there was a layer of humid air just over him, and unless Dean was mistaken, he grew hotter the closer he got to his crotch.

Castiel’s hips lifted a slight, and Dean smirked. Risky, yes. But enjoyable.

Dean listened to the song on stage, and moving along to the rhythm, he rubbed his hand on Castiel’s inner thigh. Castiel’s legs parted by an inch, letting Dean’s fingertips dip between the muscle. So hot there.

Dean squeezed, Castiel gasped, silent.

Dean spread his fingers, grazing closer to Castiel’s groin, fingertips playing over the half-hard bulge. Castiel’s hands remained curled over his own legs, fists loose, his thigh still against Dean’s own.

Dean stroked him, middle finger dipping into the V between his legs, and _oh_ that was good. Castiel was hardening further, a single thick throb obvious under Dean’s touch. But then he returned his hand to his inner thigh, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, especially not in public. He liked these thighs, in any case. Firm, straining against his slacks at the seams. 

Castiel let out a shaky breath, turning his chin down to watch Dean touch him. Dean was pleasantly surprised when he found his left hand scooted over by Castiel’s right; his palm was sweating a tiny bit, but carefully, he locked his fingers over Dean’s.

They stayed like that for the rest of the play, until Audrey II killed Seymour and took over the world with its terrible prop plant limbs. As the play ended, their hands broke apart so they could applaud.

And they applauded and applauded, because the rest of the audience didn’t seem all that inclined to stop. The show members took umpteen bows, but finally, the house lights went up, and the audience stood up as one, chatter reigning once again.

“Ahh, that was great, wasn’t it?” Charlie said, leaning over Castiel’s lap to see Dean. “The movie ended differently, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Dean shot her a smirk, subtly touching Castiel’s thigh as he leaned closer. “Thanks for bringing us out,” he said. “You headed home now?”

Charlie ducked back, and Dean took a moment to look up into Castiel’s face, seeing a blazing warmth in his eyes, something that caused ripples under Dean’s skin. But then Charlie popped back into his side, and Dean looked over at her smile instead.

“Getting coffee with Daphne,” Charlie told him. “Gonna join us?”

Dean pulled a lopsided grin, hoping he looked more confident than he really was. “Sure.”

Charlie glanced away, but her eyes locked back to Dean’s, with a questioning raise of her eyebrows. “Um, the two of you―”

She cleared her throat, rethinking her question. “Actually never mind,” he said, pulling back. “Not important.”

They packed up their things, pulling coats and jackets back on. Daphne led the way as they followed everyone else back down the hallway. Dean felt drawn to Cas’ side, shoulders bumping as they shuffled, shuffled, shuffled.

“Hey!” Charlie said, whacking Dean’s side quickly as they joined the rest of the audience in the hall. “Wait for us for a bit, we’re going to the ladies’ room.”

Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned his back against the postered red wall, Castiel hanging beside him.

“Dean...” Castiel began.

“What’s up?”

Castiel’s eyelids flickered, and he looked away, squinting at nothing in particular. “I was hoping you might want to... see how my apartment is arranged. See where all the flowers that you gave me are.”

Well, wasn’t that just a lame excuse?

Dean smirked, bumping his elbow playfully into Cas. “Yeah, okay,” he said, jokingly. “Move some furniture around, maybe?”

Castiel scratched his ear, head down. “If you would like.”

Dean knocked his head back against the wall as he laughed. “I was kidding, Cas. I gotta get home, have to feed the cat tonight. It’s Friday night, Gabe’s working late, Sam’s got classes - and... And, in any case...” His lip sank under his teeth. “You ‘n me shouldn’t put ourselves alone.”

“We’re alone now.”

“There’s people here still.”

Castiel turned fiercely blue eyes on Dean, shoulders squared. “Nobody has to know,” he said, with a small nod. “I want to spent time with you. I miss you.”

Dean’s stomach twisted as he looked away, hearing the bravery Castiel used to say those words. They could ruin everything, because together, they were both weak for each other. Dean shook his head, cowardice as tonight’s default.

“Dean. If it makes you happier, I can see you in secret.”

“Cas...” Dean met his eye, scared at the intensity he saw there. “Cas, you can’t cheat on your wife.”

“I want to spend time with you. There is no crime in that.”

Dean felt desperation rumbling core-deep in him, the same pull he felt for everything he craved - it came just as absolutely for Cas. “It’s just... Just a friend thing, right?” Dean whispered, ashamed that he had to ask. He shouldn’t feel the need for anything but friendship, yet he couldn’t stop it. _Want._

Castiel took a while to answer. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s a friendly visit.”

Dean nodded. How much of that was a promise made to be broken, he had yet to find out.

“You boys ready to go?” Charlie said, striding into the hallway out of the bathroom. A new shade of lipstick was painted on her lips, and Dean recognised it as Daphne’s.

“Yeah... That shade doesn’t really suit you,” he said, frowning amusedly at Charlie, as Daphne gave her the same look from a few paces behind.

“Really? Bollocks,” Charlie said. “Maybe it would look better on you.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t do lipstick. Gloss is more my thing.” He chuckled then, tilting his head in consideration. “Might look good on Cas, though.”

Castiel fidgeted, halfway smiling. “I’ve tested that theory before, but I have to say―”

Charlie smooched him, laughing. Castiel pushed her away, eyes wide, a mumbled note of surprise escaping his mouth. His cheek was covered with a smash of red. He looked at Dean, a nervous laugh breathed in his direction.

Dean just grinned, because clearly, the entire purpose of Charlie putting on lipstick was so she could rub it on Cas’ face. She now wiped it off her own lips with one of Daphne’s soft pocket tissues, and Castiel spluttered as he tried to get the red smears off his cheek.

“C’mere,” Dean said, taking Castiel by the tie and leading him towards the bathrooms. “That’s Charlie’s way of saying she likes you.”

“I am... fairly certain,” Castiel said, still pawing at his cheek as they entered the unisex bathroom, “that a lot of women say they like other people by kissing them.”

They stood in the tiny tiled room, two saloon doors to stalls on the right. Dean grabbed a roll of toilet paper out of the dispenser, then went to the sink to run some water over it.

“Charlie’s not interested in you romantically,” Dean explained. He chuckled, watching Castiel touch his face over and over. “Covering you in makeup is like... hazing. She, uh - she probably was trying to get me to do exactly this.”

He put the tissue to Castiel’s face, wiping down the smudge. Castiel squinted one eye, disliking the scratchy paper. Dean smiled at Castiel and kept wiping, eyes sliding away from his gaze and to his now-pink cheek. “It’s not so bad, right? I get to touch you awkwardly, your traditional rom-com ‘there’s something on your face’?”

Castiel snorted, eyes turning down, a thin smile pulling his lips upward. “I saw a few romance movies last week. I think you were supposed to lick the paper. Or your thumb.”

Dean shrugged, leaning closer, letting Castiel’s breath fog his glasses. “Who cares. All I know is the lipstick’s gone and I’m still touching you.”

Castiel’s gaze flicked to his own, and Dean’s insides did the gooey honey thing again. Slowly he retracted the disintegrating tissue, before moving to toss it into the open toilet in the stall.

He went to wash his hands, eyes on Castiel. Cas was still watching him.

Dean pulled in a long breath, shallow, eyes down. “You really think this is a good idea? Me seeing you?”

“Do you think you’re so weak-willed that you cannot control yourself?” Castiel asked back. Dean was pretty sure he meant more than his feelings and his dick, which left him to wonder how Castiel knew how deeply Dean was sinking. He liked to think his issues were manageable for him right now, but the potential for them worsening was massive.

He swallowed, not meeting Castiel’s gaze as he headed for the door ahead of him. But Dean stopped before he made it there, and he sighed. “I think... me seeing you... it’s a recipe for mistakes. The kind we can’t take back.”

He needed to talk to someone about _everything_. And if Cas gave him that chance, it was going to happen. Intimate or not, a night spent together could be a night where truths came to light.

Dean considered that he could use that truth to save them both. If he told Cas about his past, Cas would leave him for certain. That would be better for everyone, wouldn’t it? Dean wasn’t the sort of person that Castiel should be with. He was red danger, just like every man Dean ever fell for, and Dean couldn’t let Cas fall the same way. The ground was waiting.

They walked back into the hallway, but the women were gone, as were most of the crowd. Dean looked around, then stepped outside into the dark-skied street.

Charlie turned to him, immediately dropping her cigarette. “Hey,” she croaked. Daphne stood behind her, arms folded. “We’re heading off now, there’s a café down the road. Gilda’s meeting us there when she gets off work.”

“Great, awesome. But - I’ve got to get home,” Dean said. “Lucifer needs feeding, nobody else is home till later.”

Charlie pulled a disgruntled expression, but it fell away as she turned to Castiel. “Cas, what about you?”

Dean glanced to Daphne, but Daphne gave no reaction to her financé being addressed as ‘Cas’. Dean guessed she was already aware of how Castiel had lied to Dean about his name. So... how much else did she know?

“I’m going to go home as well,” Castiel said, a fast and unmeaningful glance passed in Dean’s direction, before he looked back to Charlie. “I have... plants to water.”

Dean smirked.

“Guess we’ll see you around,” Charlie said, hand on Daphne’s arm.

“I had a great time tonight,” Daphne called over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Emanuel!”

“Goodnight,” Castiel called after her, waving briefly before tucking his hand back into his pocket.

“What, no kiss?” Dean smirked.

Castiel smiled, eyes on the sidewalk, where moving lights drifted as cars passed by. But he didn’t respond to Dean, just turned away and started walking.

Dean, unsure what to do, trotted at his heels until he caught up. “So you’re heading home?”

“Yes.”

“Gonna call a cab?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, more distractedly, as he stepped into the street and raised an arm, signalling the first car that approached. The cab strayed towards the kerb, and Castiel stepped back onto the sidewalk, side pressed to Dean’s. “I suppose this is goodnight.”

Dean stared at the idling taxi and watched Cas pop open the door to the back seat, his face highlighted by the light on the roof of the cab.

“I could ride with you,” he said, cautiously. “We _kind_ of live in the same direction.”

“We really don’t.”

Dean breathed out a grin. “Yeah. Guess not.”

“I wouldn’t mind the company, though. We could take the long way round. Drop you off first. Or,” he added, “I could pay for the extra travel so you can get back after I’m home.”

Dean gulped, hand slinking over the top of the open door, pulling it open some more. “We can do that.”

Castiel smiled, holding the door as Dean ducked in first. He slid to the far side of the back seat, grabbing his seatbelt as Castiel joined him on his left.

Castiel leaned forward, giving the driver his address.

“Wow, fancy,” Dean said, as Castiel leaned back and did up his own safety belt. “How long’ve you lived there, and why did you never tell me?”

Castiel’s smile was tense. “If I told you, you’d have asked why I have so much money. My father owns the whole block.”

“Damn,” Dean whistled. “You weren’t kidding when you said he was rich.”

“I was not.”

Dean settled quietly, watching the streetlights pass along with the bright glares of shopfronts, blinking colours and shapes into his vision which seemed to hover all around.

After a few minutes, he looked from the window to Castiel, watching him stare out of the other window. There was barely a space between them; Cas had taken the middle seat, rather than the one on the far side.

Dean’s eye fell to where Castiel was fiddling, his hand in a fist once more.

Dean only then realised why Castiel had kept his left hand in a fist for the whole evening. “You’re wearing a ring,” Dean said, his voice coming out breathy and painful. “Daphne gave you that?”

Castiel raised his left hand, spreading his fingers to show Dean the plain silver band. “It seemed like the thing to do.”

Dean licked his lips, feeling his stomach sinking as he returned to see out of the window, the colours in the passing lights not quite as cheerful as before.

“Dean...”

“What.”

“It’s not what you think. This marriage. It’s not singularly to please my father.”

“Then what is it?”

Castiel sighed, as if bracing himself. “Unless Daphne marries me, my father will not allow her to head the company. She’s qualified and better-versed in the business than anyone else, yet he won’t allow her to take the job. You understand, this is a billion-dollar company. It crumbles without her, and we - my family, what’s left of it - we lose our investment, or at the very least, it becomes something doomed to fail. My father is―”

“Blackmailing you!” Dean said, turning to meet Castiel’s eye. “Unless you do what he wants, he ruins your life. But he’s about to die, why would he care what happens to the company? He doesn’t. He’s... Christ, Cas. He’s manipulating you, and you―”

“You think I don’t know that?” Castiel’s lips pressed tightly, nostrils flaring. “Dean, I _know_. He’s always been that sort of man. If I marry Daphne, he might let me take care of him for his last year. If I succeed the way I plan to, then I can help him live, get him the treatment to save him. I know you think that’s pathetic, but I care about him. If this is the only way he’ll let me help him, I will take that option.”

Dean quietened. “Cas,” he said, softly, “I don’t think that’s pathetic. Caring for stubborn assholes who treat you like shit, just because you’re a good person? That’s not pathetic, that’s fucking heroic.”

“It’s not what I would call heroic,” Castiel said, an unhinged madness in his eye as he flinched away, glaring out of the window. “Not when other people get hurt.”

Dean swallowed, sliding his clasped hands between his thighs, keeping them from fidgeting. “You think I’m hurt?”

He closed his eyes, wondering why the hell he said that. It wasn’t about him, he couldn’t be the one Cas meant.

“I _know_ you’re hurt,” Castiel said, resting a hand over Dean’s stiff fingers. “My father has interfered with my friendship with you, just like every other relationship I ever had. Benny is the only person he allows near me.”

Dean lifted a hand, letting his fingers twine through Castiel’s. “Benny’s a good guy.”

Castiel huffed a smile, right by Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah, he is.”

Dean sighed slowly, saddened that the taxi was pulling up to the side of the street, Castiel’s apartment―

“Cas, you’re bailing on me?”

Castiel chuckled, his joined hand tugging on Dean’s as he indicated the door nearer the sidewalk. “No, you’re coming inside with me.”

Dean felt a flurry of excitement, enough to rival the sudden panic. “Um, I’m not sure that’s―”

“I’m going to make you some dinner. And you’re going to eat it.”

Dean shook his way to standing as he left the car, hand losing Castiel’s as Cas leant down to pay the driver. The promise of food cooked by Castiel seemed like a miracle, the kind Dean _didn’t deserve_... but oh, he wanted it so badly. He wanted Cas to give him everything, offer him the world that he had stashed under that coat of his.

Lights seemed to glow under Cas’ hands as he took Dean’s fingers between his own again, leading him through a hissing glass door and into the gigantic marble foyer beyond. He put his keycard back into his coat, hand never leaving Dean’s.

Dean crossed the hall in awe, head turning to watch the chandeliers shimmer in the bright lights, white shapes shining off his glasses frames, everything gleaming with astounding cleanliness.

“I don’t like this place much,” Castiel said, head tilted down as they waited for the elevator. “It’s sterile.”

“I guess.” Dean compared it to his own home, where there was warmth and aroma, a lack of symmetry in every section of the apartment. This place was practically royal. But yes, its grandeur seemed soulless.

The elevator had a mirror on every wall. Dean stared at himself, the light from the top edges of the cabin making every shadow show on his face. He was pale, his glasses doing nothing to hide the deep shadows under his eyes, nor mask how his cheeks were becoming hollow from weight loss. It shocked him to see himself look so old, so frail. A few months ago he’d been in his prime, and now he looked like he was falling apart.

Quietly, there came a voice, “You’re still beautiful.”

Dean looked at Castiel’s reflection. He wore no smile, but as he peered at Dean, he showed something far from sorrowful in his expression.

Castiel’s eyes lowered, and his head swayed, then his body pulled near to Dean. Dean watched the other man’s reflection curl against him, head tucked under his chin, cheek to his shoulder. He felt breath on the small amount of exposed skin at the neck of his t-shirt.

Castiel drew a hand to hold the back of Dean’s neck, embracing him.

Dean shut out the image he saw, an angel with his arms around a man corrupted with demons, and instead he allowed the reality of it to fill his other senses. Arms around Castiel, he held him tightly.

They ignored the loud ding and the grating whine of the doors when the elevator came to rest on Castiel’s floor.

They stayed until the doors shut again, and the sound seemed to shake Castiel awake. He pulled back, a breath breaking from his parted lips. He looked slowly into Dean’s eyes, and Dean looked back.

“What - what would you like to eat?” Castiel asked. “We should start with something savoury.”

Dean bit back a grin, watching Castiel’s shoes cross to the doors. He pressed the button to open them again, and Dean followed him down a windowed corridor. He was impressed by the view; this was a rooftop apartment, the penthouse. Roads struck away from here like the building was at the centre of a network; cars shone like glowing insects.

“You know, I’d actually love some omelette,” Dean said, voice aimed more towards the floor than Castiel. “I make it every morning for everybody at home, but I never had anyone else make it. I don’t... I mean... I don’t know what it’s meant to taste like, I just make it and hope nobody complains.”

Castiel chuckled, turning halfway back to meet Dean’s gaze, before he brought them to the solitary dark wooden door at the end of the hall. He shoved a key into the lock, and it clacked. “I will make you an omelette, then,” he said, and pushed the door open. “While you make yourself at home.”

Dean immediately knew this place was not, and would never be, a home to him. Polished oak intimidated him from every side of the wide hall, scarily clean, empty of everything. After closing the door behind them, Castiel padded forwards, pausing once to tug his shoes off, leaving them to tumble to the corner of the wainscoting.

It didn’t even smell like Cas, it smelled like something lemony and chemical-ridden.

But... Oh.

As Castiel switched all the lights on, they made it to the first living room, off the hall to the left - the first turning of _three_ \- and Dean felt better. Flowers decorated every side of the room, plants in pots draping their leaves over the couch back, blooms and sagging blossoms perched in colourful vases.

“You gotta come see me at the shop sometime,” Dean muttered, following Castiel to the black-tiled kitchen, bending to untie his boots. “Your flowers are looking a little wasted.”

“They’re all more than a week old,” Castiel said. “I’ve kept them as happy as I can, but,” he sighed, “they never last long.”

Dean shed his jacket, throwing it over a couch. He gazed out of the French windows the couch faced, admiring the skyscrapers that were lit up ahead. It all looked like a high-definition movie; the only time Dean ever visited places like this, he was casing them out, or looting them.

There was a balcony out there, a potted tree sitting solitary in the corner. Dean wondered if that was Castiel’s attempt to start his own garden, like Dean’s.

Dean turned as Castiel ran the tap in the kitchen. He slunk in behind him, elbowing him as he too stepped up to the sink. Pots and pans sat cleaned in the dish rack, and Dean kept his outstretched arm away from them so he didn’t knock them down.

Castiel smiled at him, and let him wash his hands too.

Dean felt sparkling stars fall through his body, a soft pleasure - Castiel had lifted the soap dispenser, and leaned it over Dean’s hands to help him wash.

“You know, I really could do that myself,” Dean said, unable to hide his shy smile. The white liquid soap drifted into the middle of his cupped hand, and he rubbed his hands together, warm water rushing past his fingertips.

“Yes, you could,” Castiel said, his chest pressed to Dean’s back. Arms slung around Dean’s hip, grasping his hands gently. “But I would like... to do it for you.” Castiel began to rub them for him, slick and warm and wet and oh so _pleasurable_...

Dean’s knees felt weak, his chest tight, his back warm with Castiel’s heat. He kept on watching Castiel touch his hands, cleaning between his fingers, smoothing over his palms. The scent of jasmine reached him, the scent of the soap. That was what he sometimes smelled on Cas when he was in the shop.

He could feel Castiel’s breath on his shoulder, his chest moving irregularly. He was excited by this.

“I’m - uh,” Dean started, finally moving to pull his hands back, now they were thoroughly clean. “I’m sorry I smell like smoke. I didn’t even shower before I came out, I thought it was just gonna be a crappy evening brightened only by pie.”

“I don’t mind, you still smell like you.” Castiel said with a smile, handing Dean a clean dish towel to dry his hands.

Dean chuckled, then handed the towel back as he finished up. Castiel hadn’t risen to the bait, hadn’t asked what Dean got instead of pie. So Dean went ahead and told him, “Seeing you tonight was better than Charlie taking me out for pie.”

“Thank you?”

Dean pursed his lips, leaning back against a kitchen island. “Welcome.”

Still watching Dean carefully, Castiel dried his own hands, then strolled across the big kitchen, going for a cupboard. Dean looked away from him, too enticed by the way he moved.

He needed _not_ to fuck up Cas’ relationship with Daphne. Whether Cas loved her or not, Dean felt bad that Cas would even consider lusting after Dean behind her back.

Dean had no intention of being Cas’ mistress, just as he suspected Daphne had no intention of being Cas’ beard. Yet, Daphne seemed to be going along with it just fine. Maybe she didn’t know.

Everything was kinda fucked up anyway. Dean didn’t have a way out of his looped thoughts unless Cas threw some other curveball at him.

Dean moved to stand closer as Castiel pulled out a pan, then oiled it. He only waited a moment for it to heat up before he cracked some eggs against its side, the way chefs did: with one hand, a single tap making them split.

“You do this often?”

Castiel smiled, fingers twitching at his shirt sleeve, which were still rolled up from earlier. “Often enough. I order in sometimes. But I do love to bake.”

“Cakes or cookies?”

“Both. Dishes and desserts of all kinds.”

Dean’s eye followed Castiel’s hands as he spun salt and pepper from their grinders into the pan, then set them back on their stands.

This kitchen was designed with sleek aesthetics in mind, but Castiel had rearranged it to suit his needs: the flavouring herbs and spices were stacked in clumps beside the stove, grouped inside old ice-cream tubs, their labels still on the sides. There were magnets on the fridge, touristy ones, with plaster-mould images of the Golden Gate Bridge, holding up shopping lists and notes for somebody else.

“Um,” Dean said, wandering closer to the fridge. “Does... Does somebody live with you?”

Castiel looked up, seeing what Dean was pointing at. He laughed, shaking his head as the pan let out a hiss as another egg cracked onto the hot surface. “No, those are for Penelope. My cleaner.”

“Dude, you have a cleaner?”

“Yes.” Castiel glanced back, then to Dean. “She was in here while I was out tonight, that’s why the hall smelled so clean.”

“That’s pretty fucking weird, Cas,” Dean muttered. “Letting someone into your house to mess with your stuff? Dude.”

Castiel shrugged. “I have a notion that if I moved in with Daphne, I’d pay for a housekeeper. I don’t think I know how to clean anything.”

“Wait, you didn’t wash those dishes yourself?”

Castiel looked to the dish rack, and shook his head.

“Fuck, you’re a menace to the human race.”

Castiel hummed a laugh. “When I was younger I used to envy the children who complained that their parents made them do chores. I wanted to play with bugs like the other boys, or put on rubber boots and splash in the mud. I didn’t even get to go on field trips. When I was younger my mother would volunteer as a parent helper, so she could watch me with on outings, but when she passed, my father wouldn’t... Well, he wouldn’t stoop so low.”

Dean leaned against the counter beside Castiel, watching him use a spatula to pull wrinkled half-cooked egg back, liquid filling the gaps nearest to the pan. “Pity,” Dean said.

“Quite.” Castiel raised his eyebrows, blinking. “I have done absolutely no living in my life. I’m almost four decades old, and the most fun I ever had was on the days you and I built things together. When we made our wall of shells - _your_ wall. When we made flower crowns. The day we made matchstick houses, the day we painted your nails.” He cleared his throat, eyes still on his pan. “The evening we made love.”

Dean didn’t mistake that crack in his voice; he was upset.

“I want to _do_ things. Live somewhere I don’t feel like a ship in a bottle. I want to make love all night, sing in the shower without feeling stupid. Travel and see places. I want to go to Borneo. Nepal, Tibet. I want to visit a monastery. I want to break into a laboratory and steal monkeys!” His hand shook on his spatula, voice rising. “I want to punch somebody in the face! I want to steal something that can’t be given back. I want to―”

Dean put his hands over Castiel’s, holding them. “Shh,” he hushed, shaking his head. “Shh, Cas. I get it, you have a bucket list a mile long. We all do.”

Castiel dragged in a shivering breath, panting.

Once he’d gathered himself up enough to flip the omelette, he shook his head, and Dean inched away, hand lingering on his arm.

“I’m sorry, this was meant to be your night of sanctity,” Castiel laughed, uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to burst on you like that.”

“You can burst all you want, I’m here ‘cause I wanted to see you and talk to you. This counts.”

Castiel hummed, flipping the omelette one last time, before he set down the pan and went to get plates and cutlery. He returned, using the spatula to halve the omelette, and he set each half down on a plate.

“I’d have done toast with this, but I got distracted,” he said, frowning.

“It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to let toast get in the way of whatever this tastes like. Smells great, at least.”

Castiel moved to carry his plate to a table, but Dean held him back by his wrist. “Stay here,” he said to him. “Break the stupid cycles you grew up with. Screw the cutlery, eat with your hands. And,” Dean shrugged, “don’t sit at a table. Here.” He sat on the floor, back to the cupboard, butt on the shiny tiles. “Join me down here, yeah?”

Castiel didn’t even hesitate. He turned and sat on Dean’s right, legs crooked like bridges, both their plates resting on their knees. Castiel beamed as he picked up a bite of his food with his fingers, and Dean’s mouth opened, watching Castiel suck the food into his mouth, fingertips disappearing behind his lips.

“Eat, Dean; stop watching me,” Castiel said.

Dean grinned, lifting the corner of the omelette and sticking it into his mouth, letting it dangle from his teeth. It tasted onion-y, and green and brown and yellow, and had just the right amount of salt, and the right amount of peppery burn. Dean barely tasted egg at all, nothing like how his own omelettes tasted.

“D’ish’s great,” he mumbled, mouth full, eyes half closed. “Mm.”

Castiel made a sound of appreciation, and kept eating.

Dean ate and chewed and swallowed, and when he finished, he smacked his lips, sated. “Yum.”

Castiel put his own empty plate on the floor, wiping his greasy hand down his slacks. “Now we should have dessert.”

Dean smirked. “We gonna make it?”

“Would you like to make it with me?”

Dean felt his face brighten, a weight lifting from him. “Hell yeah.”

Dean showed him how to wash the plates clean, which, as it turned out, Cas already knew how to do, he’d just never bothered before. He quietly told Dean that he would endeavour to give Penelope a few weeks off, just to see how he did on his own. Dean patted him on the back, proud.

After setting the oven to pre-heat, Castiel pulled ingredients from the cupboards, and put them in a wonky line across one of the empty stainless steel islands. Flour, sugar, chocolate, chocolate chips―

“Cupcakes?” Dean asked, hopefully.

Castiel smiled, leaning in to put a kiss on the tip of Dean’s nose. Dean closed his eyes in surprise, but the tingles faded as Castiel moved away.

“Cupcakes it is,” Castiel said. Dean opened his eyes to see Castiel’s eyes twinkling, softness in the way he looked at Dean.

“What?” Dean asked with a smirk.

“You looked so happy when you thought of cupcakes, is all.”

Dean grinned. “I like cupcakes. _Everyone_ likes cupcakes.”

Castiel pattered a thirty-six-holed baking tray onto the work surface, smiling widely. “I’ve not made cupcakes for a long time.”

“Got a recipe?”

Castiel went “Ha!” He met Dean’s eye, then shook his head. “I haven’t followed a recipe other than my mother’s in many years. I make things up.”

“There, you _have_ lived a little,” Dean said, striding past him, rolling his flannel sleeves up, ready to work. “Only brave people can make stuff without a rule book.”

“I’m afraid,” Castiel started, shoulders slumping, “that isn’t the case. I remember a thought I had regarding Daphne and Juliette, that I don’t have a guide to follow, nothing to tell me how to do it, how to have a family. I fear I’ll become my father. Overprotective, overbearing, preaching nothing but uselessness.”

He slammed a cupboard door and moved to the island where Dean stood, and he thumped down a set of mixing bowls.

“Not for nothing, but I think you’d make a great father,” Dean muttered, cracking an egg on the side of the island, then clumsily separating the halves so the white and the yolk trickled together into the biggest bowl.

When Castiel didn’t answer, Dean looked over at him to see his eyebrows pulled outward, face like one of those droopy-looking dogs that trod on their own ears.

Castiel took a small breath. “Do you really think I would, or are you just... saying that?”

Dean smiled gently at his friend. “Cas, in all my time in San Fran, the only other guys who I’ve thought would make great fathers were Benny and Sammy. Benny’s already doing peachy―”

“He told me his daughter wants him to date someone.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, but he’s doing good by himself, no sweat. And Sammy... Well, one day. I hope he and Sarah will do their thing. Fingers crossed.”

Castiel thought for a few seconds, then smiled, reaching for some more eggs out of the carton. “Thank you, Dean. I suppose you’ve reaffirmed part of my faith.”

“Faith in what?”

“In lots of things. Mostly in myself.”

Dean bumped his side along Castiel’s, enjoying the soft press he gave in return.

They threw ingredients into the pot, haphazardly guessing the measurements. When it looked dry, Dean added a spot of milk; when it looked soggy, Castiel stirred, then added cocoa powder and chocolate chips.

Dean’s hands got mucky; he used his wrist to push his glasses up his face, but only got them smudged. Castiel laughed, and Dean turned his face towards him.

Slowly, so slowly, Castiel pulled his glasses off his face.

Dean’s vision became fuzzy, but he still saw the way Castiel looked at him. Wonderment in his eyes. Love.

Castiel cleaned his glasses for him on his shirt, then very carefully replaced them on Dean’s face. They felt strange to Dean, not quite right because he hadn’t put them on himself, but after a few seconds of mixing, he didn’t notice any more.

Eventually they had something that resembled batter, and, laughing at how sticky it was, they spooned it into the baking tray, batter on their hands to be licked off, batter on their faces to complain about until a deft finger swiped it away.

Dean watched Castiel sucking batter off his hand, and his body became heated in reaction to the lingering seductive look Castiel gave him as he did it. Dean had no idea how many romance movies Cas had watched, but Dean got the impression he’d watched a good amount of pornography, too. Or, at the very least, some of the more erotic romances. Perhaps something French.

Dean licked his lips and pretended he wasn’t blushing. Castiel snickered and headed for the sink, washing his hands.

“Put the tray in the oven, would you please?” he called over his shoulder.

Dean carried the heavy tray to the oven, which was twice the size of a regular cooker. “Dang, I gotta get me one of these,” he said to himself, sliding the tray into the scalding-hot oven. It rattled as the tray settled. He withdrew his hands, shut the door, and plonked himself down on the tiles, watching the shiny batter start to simmer.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna watch it rise. Always did this with Sammy when we were kids. We’d make something, then watch it cook. It’s part of the fun.”

Castiel hesitated, but moved to sit beside him, crossing his legs. His black suit pants strained at the knee, hands placed over them.

Dean watched him for a little while, observing the curve of his spine, the straight cut of his jaw from the side. His stubble was longer than it often was when Dean saw him, since it was probably gone midnight tonight, and Dean usually saw him during the daytime.

Dean thought, and realised if he stayed the night, Cas’ jaw would be scruffy tomorrow morning. Soft, maybe prickly. But dark and thick, either way.

Dean licked his lips, turning back to watch the cakes. They started to swell in their small round metal sections, bubbles appearing on their tops.

“I imagine the Earth was formed much like this,” Castiel said.

“Like how?”

“Something watching over it while it did what it had already been programmed to do. I can’t understand people when they rule out God as a reason for evolution. Both could exist simultaneously.”

Dean hummed. “I dunno. I still don’t believe in God, so...”

Castiel turned his face towards him, looking him over. “Have you thought about it?”

Dean’s laugh came out breathy, his smile not quite reaching its full potential. “I’ve thought about it. I prayed a few times. Only one time... Actually. Twice. Twice in my life, I prayed, and it went well. All other times God or whoever just read my memo and burned it.”

“May I ask what you prayed for?”

Dean felt a brief trepidation. “Which time?”

“The times it worked.”

Dean sighed, watching the cakes rise almost enough to meet the level flat of the tray. “First time, me and my brothers were in some serious shit. Like, life or death.” He looked at his black socks, wriggling his toes. “I prayed so hard I cried. Or maybe I was crying so hard I prayed.”

He smiled weakly at Castiel, not meeting his eye. “But, we got what we needed, in a way.” He looked back to the cakes, wondering if he really did get it, after all. Someone ended up dead, so maybe he didn’t.

“And the second?”

Dean put a hand to his forehead, a thumb rubbing his eyebrow, nudging his glasses. “I can’t really tell you.”

“Oh?”

Dean shrugged. How would he explain that he prayed to fall in love with the right person, and have them be right here beside him? Despite the fact that Daphne and Castiel’s father stood between them, what Dean felt for Castiel was still perfect. Cas was what he needed.

Thinking some more about it, Dean realised both of the prayers that were answered came with a huge downside. The first answer came with death. The second... Well, he hoped it would never get as bad as the first.

The cupcakes bloomed, perfectly risen with domed tops, dots of melted chocolate in them, visible even from where Dean sat. He leaned back on his hands, sighing as the beautiful taste of warm cake filled the air. His mouth watered, and even though he wasn’t hungry per se, he wanted to eat.

Castiel leaned forward over his crossed legs, craning towards the oven like an eager child. Dean sat and watched him, admiring his rumpled dark hair, the tired sagginess under his eyes.

He too was getting old, like Dean, but on him it looked graceful. One day he’d find grey streaks in his hair, or maybe it would turn white or he’d go bald, and Dean wondered if he would ever see it for himself, if they’d still be together by then. As friends, or lovers, or as partners of any kind.

Dean also wondered which of their friends would still be in the picture by then. Hell, he would even be glad to still have Gabriel around. And maybe a descendant of Lucifer or two.

“I think they’re done,” Castiel said at last, leaning forward a bit more. “Dean, are they done?”

Dean leaned forward too, scrubbing his hands on his jeans, warming them after they’d been pressed to the cold tiles. The cakes did indeed look well-risen, and decently coated with cracks that could indicate a crispy top.

“Let’s find out,” Dean said, lifting himself onto his knees. With his hands on the oven’s handle, he pulled it down, keeping his face out of the way of the steam. The warm, chocolatey cake smell flooded the air, and Dean smiled gladly; they smelled a bit like the ones he and Sam used to make.

Castiel stood up completely, and Dean followed him up, knees and tailbone aching from the hard floor. “Ugh, I’m getting old,” Dean complained under his breath.

“As I keep saying to Daphne,” Castiel said, pulling out the tray with the aid of an oven glove, “we’re not that old.”

“We’re nearly middle-aged, dude. We’re meant to be having mid-life crises and buying flashy cars to impress chicks. Not baking cupcakes so we can eat our feelings.”

“I may have to disagree,” Castiel said, working a single cupcake out of the pan with a silicone tool, then plucking it between his fingers. He blew on it to make it cool, then took a small bite. He gave a bouncy hum, turning to Dean, licking brown crumbs from his lip. “Try this.”

“Is it still hot?” Dean asked, gingerly moving closer. He wasn’t sure if Cas meant for him to take the cake from him, or eat from his hand.

“It’ll be cold by the time you get here,” Castiel said, with an amused frown on his face. He raised the cake some more, almost rolling his eyes as Dean finally gathered that he was meant to bite it while Cas held it.

Dean ducked his head, leaning in to bite off a tiny piece. He felt the heat of it through his front teeth, and as he chewed, he rolled the moist segment over the tip of his tongue, feeling a chocolate chip remove itself from the bubbly cake part, melting and spreading on his tongue.

Castiel still stood there, hand pinched around the remaining half of the tiny cake, his other hand cupped under it to catch any crumbs that might fall. He watched Dean tasting his mouthful, a waiting expression on his face.

“‘s good,” Dean said, smiling.

“Good,” Castiel said, throwing the rest of the cake into his own mouth. He sucked his thumb free of melted chocolate, returning his attention to the tray.

“Hey... Cas?”

Castiel removed another cake, then glanced to Dean. “Yes?”

Dean pulled his lower lip into his mouth, then let it free. He was fluttering inside, excited, nervous, warm and gooey and very eager. He felt fully _in_ to this, so he may as well go all the way, right?

“What, Dean,” Cas prompted, frowning, still holding the second cake. Dean eyed the cake.

“Okay, if I do something, and it’s a little weird, can... Can you not tell anyone? Like, ever? And maybe not talk to me about it or ask or anything, just... go with it?”

Castiel frowned some more.

“It’s only that, I’ve never done this, and it’s not something I would ever do usually, and I’m kinda―”

“Dean, I will ‘go with it’,” Castiel said, cutting over Dean’s babble. “Whatever it is you mean.”

Dean breathed out, nodding slowly. “Okay.” He swallowed. “Okay. Cool.”

“...What will you do?”

“Um.” Dean took a breath. “This.”

He lowered himself to his knees, one leg at a time. He knelt with his heels against his ass, hands clasped behind his back, fingers grazing the floor.

He opened his mouth, eyes on Cas, on the cake, on Cas again.

Castiel stood there for a stunned moment, and then he understood. He didn’t laugh, or hesitate. He put a hand against Dean’s cheek, holding him, and the hand with the cake moved closer, towards Dean’s waiting mouth.

Dean bit down as Castiel placed the cake between his lips, and he took a bite, eyes falling closed for a moment as his body surged with pleasure, entirely separate to the good taste of the warm cake. Castiel was gentle, accepting, and Dean felt safer than he ever had before. Trusted him completely.

Dean chewed, swallowed, then breathed out through his nose. Eyes flicking to Castiel’s dark ones above, he opened his mouth again for more.

Castiel caressed his face as he fed Dean; fingers down his cheek, slow across his jaw, thumb in the dip of his chin. Fingers parted, dragged like a comb through Dean’s hair.

Dean shut his eyes again, moaning.

Castiel’s breath hitched noticeably, and Dean’s heart leapt in his chest; he reacted to Castiel’s reaction, his whole-body sensations spurred on by the fact that this was as for exciting Castiel as it was for him.

He swallowed, then silently asked for another mouthful.

Castiel stroked his hair as he ate. Dean kept their eyes locked, unable to breathe for the most part. He was actually turned on by this, more than could be proven by the throb of his cock, more than a simple moan could describe. The bursts of unadulterated beauty that he felt in his chest, in his heart, buzzing in his fingertips, the swoops in his gut - they said he loved this.

“All gone,” Castiel whispered, as Dean finished that last mouthful. His mouth trembled on a word, but at last it broke free, and his eyes flicked back to Dean’s. “Good boy.”

Dean rushed with heat, a slow gasp drawing in through his lips.

Castiel’s cheeks coloured, and he pulled away, hand shaking. “Uh - you... You can stand up... now,” he said, then bumped into the island beside the sink. The dish rack clattered as he hit it, a few pots tumbling down, dislodged. He swung around, but did nothing to right them. A hand went to his tangle in his hair, and he shook all over, facing away from Dean.

Dean slowly stood up, tongue lapping away what was left of his cake.

Castiel looked thoroughly shaken, heaving his breaths, the lines pulled into his white shirt changing as he inhaled, exhaled, nearly hyperventilating.

“Cas... that wasn’t meant to make you panic,” Dean said, a nervous sideways smile on his lips.

Castiel turned to him, letting his raised arm slump from his hair. He was wide-eyed, and he swallowed a good three times before he calmed, taking softer breaths, nodding at Dean.

Once more, Castiel breathed out through pursed lips, eyes turned to the floor.

Then, he looked at Dean, swallowing a final time. “Dean, would you... If I asked you to do something, and it’s a little strange, would you not tell anyone?”

Dean’s smile rose quickly. “Yeah.”

Castiel nodded, clearly building to something the same way Dean had done.

At last he worked up the courage, yet still couldn’t meet Dean’s eye as he spoke. “Would you please, when I do something you enjoy... Tell me I’m good. I did it well, or, or... Or you liked it.”

“‘Good boy’?”

Castiel shut his eyes, a fast breath puffing out of his mouth. Frowning, he nodded again. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, just that. Just tell me that.”

“Only in private, right? When nobody else is around?”

Castiel dipped his head, perhaps in shame. “Yes.”

Dean smiled. “Hey, shake on it. Pinkie swear.”

Castiel looked up in confusion, and saw Dean holding out his little finger.

Dean pointed his other hand towards it. “Hook your pinkie round mine and shake.”

“Is this a secret handshake?” Castiel asked, setting his little finger against Dean’s without a second thought.

Dean chuckled, feeling the tug as their fingers locked and shook, once. “Nah, it’s a kid’s thing. Kids do this when they make pacts and stuff. It’s supposed to be more honest, or something. Who knows.”

“I see,” Castiel said, pulling back his hand and looking down at it, like it was different now, somehow.

Dean smiled. His hand felt different too. Better. Less guilty.


	14. Acrylic

Castiel led Dean into his painting studio, where the lights of the city shimmered on the white walls. The glass ahead was clean and clear, same as the glass wall to the left. The plastic corrugated ceiling sloped upward, tallest where they entered.

In the daytime, this whole place glowed. In the rain, it became a sanctuary of pitter-pattering; sometimes Castiel liked to sleep here, so he could listen to the roof singing to him.

Now, this place was silent, peaceful, and dark. A distant hum filled the wide expanse of space, perhaps traffic, perhaps the sound of the building by itself.

This room was meant to be a dance studio or event hall, but the very centre of it had become Castiel’s creative area; grey carpet had been professionally laid down in a square upon the polished wood, and was splattered with paint. His easel stood between two portable bookshelves, a small table, and a wheeled cart stacked with well-used painting equipment.

“Holy crap,” Dean murmured, hand slipping out of Castiel’s loose hold. “Did you paint this?”

Castiel only realised Dean wasn’t talking about the walls or the nightscape view when he turned to see where Dean had wandered off to. Castiel’s heart beat a little faster when he saw him standing like a small, lost child in front of the huge canvas on the right wall.

“I did,” Castiel said, moving to stand beside Dean, arms folded. He too stared up at the painting.

Six feet across, four feet down. An angel, falling from Heaven, wings burning up into flames; the air he fell through blazed with colour, appearing striking even in moonlight - reds, pinks, oranges; gold, the colour of Heaven’s gates; black, the colour of the world he fell to.

Dean ever so gradually pulled in a breath, mouth open.

“He looks like you,” he whispered.

Castiel’s eyes sank down, watching his bare toes wriggle on the polished wooden floor. “He does.”

“This is a self-portrait,” Dean concluded. “Is this how you see yourself? Falling and burning?”

Castiel smiled over at Dean, seeing how the moonlight through the ceiling curved hazy silvers onto Dean’s face and glasses, making him seem wolfish rather than sick, graceful rather than dozy.

“It’s one view,” Castiel told him. “When I painted this, yes, I did feel I’d lost something.”

Dean hadn’t taken his eyes off the angel.

But then he did all of a sudden, and he cast his eyes around, looking for something. “Dude, you got a chair somewhere?”

Castiel went behind his cart of painting supplies, clearing a few empty canvases to the ground before carrying the chair to Dean. Dean thanked him, took the chair, then spun it around on one leg until it faced away from the painting. He swung a knee over the chair, and sat with his arms folded, legs apart with the chair back between them.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Castiel asked.

“Yup. I’m gonna decode it.”

“There’s nothing to decode. It’s all one big snapshot of everything.”

“Shh, Cas, there’s a secret message, I can hear it in there. I can - god, this is amazing - I can hear his wings burning, dude. They’re going like _fffflloogfghhh_.”

Castiel smiled at Dean’s rapt expression and his bright eyes. “If you say so.”

He stood there for a full minute, expecting Dean to speak at some point, or turn away. But Dean just sat.

“Well, in the meantime,” Castiel said, “I’m going to get a drink. Would you like something?”

“Mm.”

Castiel left the studio, following the hallway, the wood sticking to his bare feet. It was shadowed in here, the moonlight behind him, the light from the kitchen ahead.

Once in the kitchen, he stuffed another freshly-iced cupcake into his mouth, savouring it while he dug out some white wine. But then he reconsidered; he didn’t think handing Dean alcohol was that great of an idea.

Instead, he found sparkling white grape juice, and popped the cork with a forceful thumb.

With two full glasses, Castiel returned to the studio, feeling a twitch in his eye from fatigue. He didn’t know what the time was, but it was most likely already gone one in the morning. He’d planned to sleep tonight, but now he was hoping he would head into overtired territory, go into survival mode, and be able to spent the night awake with Dean.

...Maybe Dean wasn’t the only one with some destructive tendencies.

“Ooh,” Dean said, plucking the proffered glass from Castiel’s hand. “Thanks.” He sipped, eyes still pinned to the painting.

“Would you prefer to look at it in the light?”

Dean grunted noncommittally, shrugging a shoulder as he sipped his drink again.

Castiel, making a decision, put down his drink and headed back to the door to hit the light switch. The room began to glow warm yellow, the chains of fairy lights crossing the roof in grids all blinking to life in a matter of moments. The light was like white wine; golden, gentle, subdued.

Dean looked up, an impressed coo coming from the back of his throat. “Nice,” he muttered, then looked back to the painting.

Castiel sighed, scuffing his feet on the part of the floor that wore a carpet. “Will you spend all night there, or will you give me a good reason to force myself to stay awake?”

Dean turned around then, making the chair creak. He bumped his eyebrows, then stood up, spinning and falling back to the chair so the support was behind him, legs open like before, but this time he sat accusingly, like he owned the room.

“If you’re staying awake all night, I’m staying awake all night too,” Dean said. He tipped back another sip of his drink as the same time as Castiel did.

“What would you like to do?”

Dean shrugged. “Got any other paintings you wanna show me?”

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “I do, but if you’ll stare at them all for as long as you stared at this one, I may as well leave you to it.”

Dean shook his head. “Some other time, then. Man, I just wanna soak in that thing,” he thumbed at the angel over his shoulder. “You’re a really good artist, you know that?”

His breath caught for a moment, not quite a gasp, but almost. His eyelids fluttered as he looked over at Castiel, voice down an octave as he said, “Good boy.”

Castiel curled uncomfortably, shaking his head. “No, not like that.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, I get that. Sorry, that’s gonna take some getting used to. The moment wasn’t right.”

In thought, he sipped at his fizzing drink, then sighed.

“I dunno,” he continued, as if he’d never broken off. “I’d like to make something with you again.”

The words _make love_ landed amongst Castiel’s immediate thoughts. He pushed the words away.

“Have you ever painted?”

Dean looked up in surprise. “Like how you do? With canvases and symbolism and shit?”

Castiel chuckled. “Uh-huh.”

Dean shook his head, leaning back in the chair, wine glass set between his parted legs as he spun it between his fingertips. “Nah. If I ever did something really arty, I’d probably do sculpture. I like using my hands.”

“There are many ways to paint,” Castiel began, already stepping towards his easel, behind which the blank canvases were resting. “A paintbrush is not the only way to put images on a canvas.”

Dean stood up out of his chair. “Fingerpainting?”

“Would you be opposed?” Castiel picked a medium-large-sized canvas, three times the size of regular printer paper. “You might get messy.”

As Castiel put the canvas into the easel, he looked back. Dean appeared to be overjoyed.

“I love messy,” Dean said. “Say ‘wet and messy’ and I’m there.”

“Wet and messy.”

Dean stood at Castiel’s side, removing his flannel shirt. “I’m here.”

Castiel smiled, going for his side trolley, where splodges of long-dried paint were spewed across every surface, jars of water still drowning in bog-coloured particles, some of them with the thicker bits settled on the bottom, nearly white at the top.

He hummed disparaging notes as he picked up each jar and the damaged paintbrushes that had been drowned inside them, then carried everything he could over to the deep rectangular steel sink in the back wall. He didn’t bother washing anything, just tipped out the gunk and threw the old brushes to soak in the puddles of the sink. He’d deal with them later.

He went back to Dean’s side, bare foot touching the soft orange plaid shirt that Dean had left lying on the carpet. Castiel bent to pick it up, untucking his own shirt as he straightened.

“Hm,” Dean said, thumb and forefinger boxing his chin. He peered at the canvas, then at Castiel. “Do you see something when you look at the white? Or...?”

Castiel shrugged, putting the plaid shirt onto the abandoned chair, followed by his tie as he made quick work of undoing it. “I sometimes plan them to the millimetre, other times I put down colours and make it up as I go.”

“How do you want to do this one?”

“It’s your painting, you decide.”

Dean shook his head, then raised an arm towards Castiel, fingers splayed, openly inviting him closer. His grey t-shirt was turned the colour of champagne by the lights from above. And his eyes were as golden as the angel’s burning wings.

Castiel put his hand into Dean’s, and let him lead their bodies closer, as if they were about to dance. Dean turned to the canvas, fingers sketching down its middle. “I wanna paint it with you. Make it together.” He looked into Castiel’s eyes, hopeful.

Castiel smiled, glancing to the canvas as he nodded. “Yes, all right.”

Dean’s hand trailed the small of Castiel’s back, and maybe traced the curve of one buttock before it fell away. Castiel shivered at the touch, but Dean’s hand was already gone, and he didn’t notice.

Castiel went ahead and squeezed fresh acrylic paint onto the already-messy palettes, serving out a good dollop of each colour. Red, yellow, ochre, rich blue, black, white. Then he returned to the sink, crouching to open the cupboard beneath it. He pulled out a clean jar for water, and a small handful of clean paintbrushes, just in case.

As he got back to Dean, he saw a blotch of purple in the very centre of the canvas.

“I see you know what you’re doing,” Castiel said.

Dean squinted at him, picking up the wine glass from where he’d left it on the trolley. “Are you being sarcastic?”

Castiel smirked, but shook his head. “Not at all. That’s a very nice purple.”

“Yeah, well, I already made a mess of the paint, look.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows as he saw that, indeed, the unused red had a smear of dark blue in it. “It will add visual interest to your colours,” he said. “Which is total bullshit, but if it makes you feel better...”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean muttered, wrinkling two of his painty fingers together, smearing the colour so it thinned between his fingerprints. “Hey, you gonna help me with this?”

Castiel rolled his sleeves up again, not caring that his fingers left a blot of old paint on his sleeve. “I will, yes. Do you know what you want it to be?”

Dean laughed. “Sure. Modern art.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and leaned his arm across Dean’s middle to press his thumb into the ochre. After a moment’s thought, he flattened his entire hand into the palette, squashing red to his palm, cold on his skin; the other colours merged against him, against each other, and as he lifted his hand with a squelch, he smiled. “That was very satisfying.”

Dean purred. “And kinda hot.”

Castiel glanced at him, feeling his eyes sparkle with a heat that came from within. “I’m glad you think so. Painting can be...” He pored over the canvas, then put his hand against it, rolling it slowly, gently, hard. “...very... seductive.”

Dean slurped his grape juice.

“Now you,” Castiel said, wiping hand against hand, feeling the smoothness of wet paint left in the central dip of his palm.

Dean handed Castiel his wine glass after putting down his own drink, then he moved to swipe his fingertips through the palette, collecting an ugly colour, something that ought to have been a rainbow but turned out the colour of river sludge.

Dean hummed, curling his fingers into a fist, leaving trails on his inner palm. Then he put his wet hand against Castiel’s splodgy handprint. It left a mark that seemed almost tribal; long fingers, scratches of curled fingertips where a palm ought to be.

“What’s this even gonna be?” Dean intoned, tilting his head sideways at the mess before them. “Unless you can sell this for five hundred bucks, I’m not counting it as successful.”

“Ah, but an artist measures success in how much he _feels_ when he paints,” Castiel said, eyes lowered, chin up, as he swiped a long diagonal turquoise-yellow across the top of the canvas, smearing the fingertips Dean had left previously. “As of right now,” he whispered, his drink-bearing hand undoing two of his shirt buttons, “I feel like a part of me is... ravishing.”

Dean shuffled. “Is that true? About artists and feelings?”

Castiel barked a laugh, tipping back a sip of his drink. “Artists in general, not at all,” he smiled, meeting Dean’s gaze, watching him lick his lips; thick tongue, plush lips, interested eye. “But it’s how I see my work.”

“You’ve changed a lot since I met you,” Dean said, quietly, eyes on the palette. He squeezed out more red, more ochre, then ran his hand through it. “You used to be kind of... bland and stumpy.”

Castiel smirked. “And now?”

“Now I’m just wondering who I thought I met back then. Because you’ve always been this, this guy. All alluring and colourful and smooth-talking underneath your stupid coat. I just didn’t know you properly.”

Dean’s hand practically fucked into the canvas, the heel of his palm thrusting, pushing, making the canvas jolt a bit on the easel. He pulled off, and staring at his hand, Dean chuckled. He moved quicker than Castiel could apprehend, putting his orange hand on Castiel’s middle, leaving a handprint on his white dress shirt.

“Acrylic,” Castiel said.

“Well, damn, I thought I’d marked you forever,” Dean said.

Castiel snorted. “You have.”

Dean clearly didn’t know whether Castiel still meant his shirt, or him in general, and Castiel wasn’t about to direct his thoughts in one way or another. With a handful of sky blue, Castiel feinted moving for the canvas, but―

“Hey, I liked this shirt,” Dean complained, as Castiel slapped his heart with a hand.

“And _I_ liked _my_ shirt, so there.”

“Why, you little―”

Dean snared his fist into red, and he dragged it so hard down Castiel’s shirt that the buttons strained - and once Dean saw that happening, there was no stopping him. He grabbed both halves of the shirt, and ripped it clean open. Buttons scattered like the shells Castiel once dropped across his kitchen floor, and he was left gasping, chest exposed, nipples hardening under both Dean’s gaze and the coolness of the studio.

Dean’s breath came uneven, eyes appearing darkened behind his spectacles as he slowly raised his gaze to meet Castiel’s. Something apologetic lay in his expression, but it was overshadowed by the want and the lust and the blatant desire.

“This shirt was worth more than everything you are wearing,” Castiel said, voice low and dangerous. He wanted to make Dean tremble, because Dean was baiting him right now, he wanted to push his limits.

“Wanna bet?” Dean gave a dirty smirk, crawling up one side of his face. “Say it died in the name of art. Measure the success in how the artist feels when the art is born.”

Castiel shoved a green hand against Dean’s wrist, and Dean finally released each side of the shirt. “And how did you feel? How did you feel when you exposed me?”

Dean seemed a little undone by the force Castiel put into those words. His eyelids flickered, breath easing over his lips, mouth open. He groaned under his breath. “Hot. Hot like you wouldn’t believe. ...Oh fuck, I’m hard.”

Castiel looked down, seeing the beginnings of an upward strain against Dean’s jeans. His eyes roamed back to Dean’s face, seeing the blush on the highest parts of his cheeks, the swell in his lips. He looked at Castiel with a hunger in his eyes, seeing forbidden fruit. And yet, he also managed to look ashamed, ashamed of what his body had done.

Dean swallowed, once, twice. “I’m, um, I’m a bit pent up, it’s nothing,” he said, waving away everything he felt, everything Castiel was hoping for. “C’mon, hot guy gets his shirt ripped, can’t get better boner fuel than that.”

Dean’s nervous laugh unsettled Castiel. He’d brought Dean here tonight to help him escape this, the repression of reality. Dean saw himself and thought he was fine, unaware that in destroying himself, he was destroying his friends, too, out of their concern for him. And yet, here Dean was, trying to tell himself his attraction to Castiel was something to be passed off, ignored because it didn’t suit the reality he wanted to believe.

Castiel saw a course of action here, and it was not difficult to realise that that course of action included unfaithfulness on his part. However, he and Daphne had an understanding. Perhaps she did not know the exact definitions of what Castiel and Dean shared, but she might understand. Maybe. It was hard for Castiel to know.

But he wanted something, and for once in his life, he was going to _take_ it.

While Dean stood by the easel, rubbing ashen pink from his thumb around the edges of the canvas, Castiel fingered the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, cautiously, in case he still needed an out, a way to take this back. Dean glanced down, seeing the finger Castiel let stray against his hipbone. He left behind a line of wet green, left over from the mark he’d put on Dean’s wrist.

“Hm, that tickles,” Dean said, a shivering grin pulling up the corners of his mouth.

Castiel lifted the shirt a bit more. He looked at the skin revealed, then looked to Dean’s face.

Dean peered back, eyes scooting between each of Castiel’s, as if trying to read something in his expression. Dean took a small breath, like he was about to speak.

Castiel didn’t wait for him, just lifted the shirt further, until Dean’s right nipple showed from underneath. Dean raised his arm a short way, then hesitated, eyes darting to the windows that were uncovered on two sides of this huge room. But he seemed to decide nobody would care all that much, nodded to himself - and grabbed the back of his shirt by the neck, hauling it over his head.

Castiel’s body felt a severe reaction: arousal. The intensity of it was a surprise to him, but it felt good, and upon seeing Dean properly shirtless for the second time ever, he decided arousal probably shouldn’t be a surprising reaction, especially given how much he already felt for Dean. The obvious reaction, perhaps.

Dean’s painty hand remained cupped around part of his left bicep, however. He a flicked glance in Castiel’s direction.

Was he... scared?

“What is it?” Castiel asked, with all the patience and care he would afford a far weaker man than Dean. “This is a safe place,” he told Dean, which made Dean laugh for some reason.

“It’s not like I’ve never showed anyone this before,” Dean said, swallowing. “But it’s _you_ , and it’s different this time. You’re not exactly gonna be impressed.”

“What...?”

Dean shook his head, and turned his left shoulder towards Castiel, slowly letting his hand fall, revealing the shadow underneath. But it was not a shadow, it was a tattoo: X. It was so wrecked in its lines that it seemed more like crosshatching, slashes of messy scars that just happened to form a letter.

“Does it mean something to you?” Castiel asked, running fresh white paint over it, leaving his mark behind. He felt its ridge; a scar still healing.

Dean smacked his lips, eyes searching the floor. “Yeah. It means I’m a hunted man,” he said, with no humour at all. “It means there’s people in the world who want to kill me.”

Castiel took a breath to subdue his rising thoughts. “Okay.”

Dean huffed a laugh, looking Castiel in the eye. “‘Okay’?!”

“Yes.”

Castiel leaned in close and put his lips to Dean’s. Kissed him.

Dean melted forwards, moaning, groaning, barely moving at all. He broke the kiss to curl his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, forehead knocking Castiel’s ear as he shook his head - in awe or denial, Castiel couldn’t tell.

“Cas, we are _not_ doing this,” Dean whispered, his chest shaking. He hugged Castiel a little tighter. “It’s not like I’m not...” his breath stuttered, “in the mood, or anything, but... this isn’t what I came here for. This isn’t how you and I are meant to do this.”

Castiel threaded both his hands through Dean’s tufty hair, pulling his head back off his shoulder so he could look him in the eye. “Okay.”

Dean looked hurt by that.

He turned away, jaw tensing, his focus returning to the paint. He snatched the tube of red and squeezed out a fat splodge over the yellow, and smacked his palm into it.

Castiel felt an anger from him, startled as Dean slapped his hand into the side of the canvas, making the easel leap off one of its three feet, then clatter back down, righting itself. The canvas’ new handprint had splashed, fine needles of paint exploding from Dean’s red push.

“Dean...”

“I want to,” Dean said, a darkness in his words. His back stayed turned. “Cas, I want to. So bad. You don’t even know.”

“I do know,” Castiel snapped. “You think I _don’t_?”

“You’re the one who’s―” Dean’s smooth back muscles rolled as he forced himself to take a deep breath, standing straighter.

Castiel saw the paint that lined his hands and arms, fingers flexing as Dean tried to let the frustration go. Castiel let his go, too. There was no use fighting with Dean over this. Everything stopping them was external.

Or not.

Maybe they were both just cowards.

Dean finally spoke again. “Can we just paint this? It was fun, I wanna finish it.”

Castiel pressed himself into Dean’s shoulder from behind, an arm around his slim waist, sticky palm over smooth skin. He ducked his head to put a kiss on Dean’s bare freckled shoulder, inhaling the scent of his sweat, soap that was long-gone.

Dean didn’t fight how close he was to him. In fact, his left hand wound around his own waist to hold Castiel’s wrist, clutching him slightly tighter.

His right hand moved to the paint, picking up a new paintbrush. “We should actually make this look like something,” Dean murmured, his mind fully returned to the painting. “Does it look like a tree to you?”

“No.”

Dean chuckled, his tremor pressing his skin into Castiel’s bare chest. “Guess not.”

They spent a few long minutes in silence, Castiel watching Dean learn how to use the new tool, making new colours with the bristles swirling through the blobs on the palette. Dean dabbed to the canvas, then tried longer strokes, experimenting without direction.

For the whole time, Castiel kept his body pressed against Dean’s back, feeling his breath, the way his diaphragm rose and fell, listening to the hollow gusting sound his windpipe made as air travelled it. Castiel’s chin rested in the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder, once or twice nuzzling him side-to-side, pleased to hear Dean’s soft laugh.

And their hands stayed entwined, Castiel’s fingers curled against Dean’s belly, Dean’s hand locked over it. That was the best part, Castiel thought. Dean still wanted him there.

Castiel watched and watched, and eventually, Dean’s painting showed something that looked much like a plethora of flowers. He had not once outlined a flower shape, but the colours represented shadows and highlights, somehow recognisable out of the mess of unoriented splotches.

“You are much better at this than you think,” Castiel said, quietly. He put another kiss to Dean’s neck, breathing out against him. Dean turned his chin to put a kiss back on Castiel’s forehead, he too breathing out against his skin, ruffling his hair.

“I’m gonna go back to using my hands,” Dean said, resigned. “I like the brush, but it’s...” He wriggled the painty end over his shoulder, making Castiel yelp and back away, slapping a hand to his cheek. Dean had put a splotch of orange on his face, and once Castiel looked at it on his hand, he glared at Dean. Dean grinned and finished, “It’s less easy to get messy when you can’t put your fingerprints on stuff.”

He threw the brush into the jar of water - but taking a second glance, Castiel laughed. Dean looked back too, and saw he’d left the brush in the glass of sparkling juice he’d been drinking. With a smirk, Dean turned back to Castiel.

Castiel saw a playful glint in Dean’s eye, but he didn’t predict how quickly Dean would move. Castiel’s throat and sternum became layered with a smear of pink, immediately followed by a similarly cold smear of blue; Castiel looked down and saw lilac spreading where the bend in his chest made the colours mix.

Dean laughed, then offered Castiel the mucky palette like it was a gift. “You know you wanna.”

Castiel gave a spry smile, and took the palette. A hand went into the yellow, and then to Dean’s hardened nipple. Dean whimpered, breath stopping, eyes closing as he grinned. He then looked back at Castiel with a challenging stare, one eyebrow crooked.

Castiel dragged his hand over the entire palette, collecting up every colour that remained, holding a wet, dripping lump in his hand. He trod closer to Dean, dropping the palette to the carpet as he went. It would leave colour there, colour to join every other drop of paint he’d ever spilled on the floor.

Dean laughed, face clearing of the anxiety he’d come in here with. He giggled like a child as Castiel poured his hand over Dean’s shoulder, letting the liquid run down his back. He followed the drooling mess with his fingers, listening to Dean’s excited breath, enjoying the squirms his muscles gave, trying to get away, trying to get closer.

“Take your jeans off,” Castiel said to him, eyes on the buckle. “I don’t want to see them ruined.”

Dean grinned and bit the side of his lip, which was already rounded from the amount of times he’d nibbled it tonight. He met Castiel’s eye with unmistakable greed; Castiel guessed it would not be long until Dean gave in completely.

“Hey... d’you wanna see what I’m wearing underneath?” Dean said, eyebrows raising. “I’m not commando tonight, by the way, in case that’s what you thought you were getting.”

That particular preference of Dean’s had slipped Castiel’s mind until now. He looked down at Dean’s crotch.

Dean put his hands on his belt buckle, the paint leaving a trail of blotting pink as he slowly... _slowly_ undid the buckle. Castiel watched with growing desire, surrounded by the sound of the metal clinking, of the leather slipping through it.

Dean’s hands moved more seductively than anything Castiel had ever seen.

Belt open, he began on his jeans. Button; hands twisted, fingers through, button out the other side.

Castiel’s mouth began to water.

The light brown hair that ran from Dean’s navel to his waistline showed as he opened his jeans; the lines of muscle above his hips were faint, but his body was still muscular, stocky. And then Castiel saw, as Dean let his jeans slump to his knees, that his lower hips were decorated by fine black lines of material.

“ _This_ is the most expensive item of clothing in the room,” Dean said, proudly. “Had it altered special. Wanted it to fit me, and - well...”

“It fits nicely,” Castiel said, eyes unable to leave the display before him. Dean’s partially-stiffened cock pushed into a stretched triangle of black cloth, large enough to hold him; from the top corners of the covering, there spread a lattice of cords, perhaps elasticated, crossing and re-crossing his wide hips. There was black lace between some sections, holding together a very delicate and very splendid item of lingerie.

Dean chuckled softly, and Castiel at last looked back to his face, seeing Dean rub at his neck, swaying a little on his feet as he stepped out of his jeans. He was enjoying the attention Castiel gave, but was still visibly shy.

“These are undoubtedly very beautiful,” Castiel said, stepping closer to Dean, a single finger stuck under the topmost cord, slinging it back and forth to feel the give. “But I thought red was your lucky colour.”

“I didn’t come out tonight thinking I needed to be lucky,” Dean explained, eyelashes batting under his spectacles. His eyeline grazed across Castiel’s shirt, which had fallen from one shoulder, collected onto his forearm. “I didn’t know I was seeing you tonight. I put these on ‘cause I needed something to make me feel good for once.”

“Feminine lingerie makes you feel good?”

Dean’s smile was again very shy. He nodded, a tiny warm breath reaching Castiel’s bicep, causing his skin to tingle.

“Yeah,” Dean almost groaned, so quiet. “Yeah. When I feel like crap it kinda makes me feel―” He frowned, shaking his head as he laughed to himself. “You’re gonna laugh, but it...” He trailed off, shaking his head again, breaking eye contact completely.

“It what?”

Dean chuckled. “It’s nothin’. I don’t exactly talk to people about it.”

Castiel tilted his head, moving himself close. “Dean,” he said. “You can trust me.”

“It’s not trusting you that’s the problem, Cas,” Dean grinned, shifting himself so his side was touching Castiel’s. “I literally don’t talk about it.”

“Then talk about it this time.”

Dean’s breath halted, held... then released. His eyelashes fluttered, Castiel saw them in his peripheral vision.

“All right?” Dean muttered, clearing his throat, frowning briefly as he stopped his glasses frames from sliding down his nose. “Just don’t laugh.”

“I won’t laugh.”

“They make me feel... good. Which, given my life, isn’t something I get to feel all that often.”

“Good?” Castiel repeated. It was the same thing Dean had said before; what was there to laugh about?

Dean’s lip trembled on a word, and he met Castiel’s eye as that word fell from his breath. “Pretty.”

Castiel didn’t laugh, he had no reason to. He put a kiss on Dean’s temple, a hand carding through his hair as he then rested his nose on Dean’s cheek. “You are the _single_ most beautiful creation of this universe, Dean.”

Dean shook under Castiel’s touch, and Castiel let him claw his way closer.

Castiel was minutely shocked at how susceptible to his emotions Dean was tonight. He was saying things Castiel got the impression he’d never said to another soul at _all_ , acting on impulses he tried hard to repress; Castiel knew what that looked like, as he was doing the same thing.

They held onto each other for a little while, just touching skin to skin, arms around each other. Castiel couldn’t recall ever being this close to someone before and feeling so at home. Dean’s scent mingled with the tangy scent of paint, and together it made Castiel giddy, and simultaneously lonesome.

This was a strange night. There should not have been barriers, yet something was still looming.

“Cas?”

Castiel hummed a reply against Dean’s shoulder, forcing his eyes half-open where they’d been slipping closed, fatigue eating away at him.

“Cas, if I’m in my underwear and you get to feel my chubby on your thigh, then I wanna see yours, too.”

Castiel laughed at that demand, pulling out of their embrace. The wet paint had warmed, half-dried, and now his own arms were mottled with it, transferred from Dean’s back.

“C’mon,” Dean urged, nodding upward. “It’s not like it’s sex, I just wanna see you.”

Castiel acted as though he was considering it, mulling it over, when in actual fact he was aching to remove his clothes; his semi-erection was paining him, unable to reach its full stiffness, and every whiff of Dean’s scent, every touch of his skin made it throb harder.

Dean growled, annoyed Castiel took so long to think it over.

“Stop me if you don’t want this,” Dean said, hands swinging to fiddle with Castiel’s belt. Castiel watched his cheeks flush with pink, eyes set on Castiel’s crotch as the belt came undone, then his shaking hands caught the tiny zipper.

Castiel pushed his hands down underneath the lace that adorned Dean’s hips, locking his palms to his skin. It felt very pleasant. He seemed to be scaldingly hot, skin aflame; Castiel would think he had a temperature, were it not for the fact he was displaying every sign of very intense arousal instead.

It made Castiel feel like a god to know his body, his hands, his touch and his voice and his words were all Dean needed to feel that way.

Dean took Castiel’s slacks in his hands, and crouched. Castiel’s hands slid out of Dean’s lingerie as he stayed standing; Dean took Castiel’s trousers with him as he lowered himself. Castiel looked down. He saw Dean kneel, pre-ejaculate dampening his underwear to a darker black, watching Castiel’s cock twitch under the tight boxers he wore.

Castiel lay his hands around the back of Dean’s neck, meeting his eye as Dean looked up at him. Dean’s lips remained parted, shining with saliva as he licked them.

“Cas... Can I―”

“Do whatever you want, Dean. I’ll allow it.”

Dean’s eyelids flickered, gaze returning to the swell of Castiel’s boxers. His fingers hooked over the elastic waistband, and he began to tug them downwards.

Castiel’s cock stiffened further, harder and thicker. Its exposed head rose up from the band, and Dean made a sound, desire riding like a breathy whine in his throat. His head sank to one side, hips gyrating once, into nothing.

“Anything you want, Dean,” Castiel said. His voice had become deathly low, a rumble.

“Cas,” Dean looked at his hands, still sliding the underwear down Castiel’s legs, Castiel tickled by his own leg hair as he went.

“If we do it once... Like, _once_ \- then never again, never think about each other that way afterwards...”

Castiel wondered if either of them could maintain such a strength, their wills were both breakable when they were around each other.

Dean let the boxers sit upon Castiel’s ankles, and Castiel stepped out of them, smiling as Dean began to run his fingertips over the tops of his bare feet.

Dean swallowed. “Maybe we could try it?” He looked up, wide eyes with a teardrop shimmer, golden in the light. “Not cheating, it’s only, a, a―” He glanced across the studio, looking for a word.

“A one-time example,” Castiel finished, and Dean nodded sharply, still focused on Castiel’s feet. “I would still marry Daphne.”

Dean’s shoulders jarred, hands stopping for a moment, before he forced himself to relax, fingers moving again. “Uh-huh,” he said. “But you and me could have one quick go at it. And it’s like a goodbye.”

Castiel tugged on his cock, not willing to let the ache continue. Dean’s eyes shot up to watch him touch, and Castiel saw his mouth drop open, hungry the same way he was when he knelt in the kitchen.

Dean stuck his hand into his panties, rubbing himself furiously as he half-smiled. “God - _god_ , Cas...”

Hearing the breathless way Dean said his name, Castiel’s heart soared like a bird for a short moment, strings from it pulling on his cock. Dean shuddered, seeing him pulse; he leaned close and grabbed Castiel’s erection with a hand, that hand wet from his own pre-come. Before Castiel could do anything to stop him, Dean’s tongue - thick, pink, shivering - swiped Cas’ slit, upwards, ending with a flick that felt cold in comparison to the fire of the rest of the muscle.

Castiel’s eyes clenched; his worry, his fear - it was all blotted out by the feel of Dean’s mouth on him.

Dean pulled his mouth off with a soft slurp. “You moan real nice,” he murmured, eyes half-closed, hips stuttering in place. He pumped Cas’ cock a few times, hand twisting at the head.

“Hey,” he said, looking up at Castiel, “are we gonna fuck here, or someplace else?”

“Bedroom,” Castiel gasped out, blinking hard, almost flinching as he kept his eyes open. All he wanted was to lay back and let Dean engulf him with that wet heat, the heat that sucked on him, tasted him, pulled fluid from him and swallowed it down.

It was terrible to want that. But that didn’t stop him wanting. He couldn’t move a muscle to push Dean away.

Dean’s hand offered three more slow and enticing strokes of Castiel’s cock, before he let his hand drop, and he stood up. “Lead the way,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Castiel made an animalistic sound, clutching Dean’s nape harder, pulling him in to meet his mouth in a kiss. He breathed away after a moment, panting over Dean’s lips. “F- Follow me,” he managed, hands sliding off Dean as he turned around.

The journey from the studio to the bedroom was flighty, heavy; footsteps felt like a mile was travelled, hands not touching enough. Their fingers slipped together and away, leading each other in a laughing dance as they left the glass room in darkness once again.

Dean ran part of the way, then slumped back against the wainscoting, desperately pumping at his cock under his panties. Castiel heard his skin slapping wet as he passed by - Dean pounced on him, biting the back of his neck before letting him free. They tumbled along the hallway, Castiel touching his cock to Dean’s lingerie when their hips drew to each other like magnets.

Castiel found himself shoved to the wall; he grunted, paint rubbing against oak panelling. Dean knelt quickly, sucked him down, swallowed at his base, then left him cold and wet as he scampered ahead.

Castiel groaned weakly, forcing his legs to work again, falling forward to chase after Dean. “You wait,” he called. “You wait, and I’ll make you beg.”

Dean reached the end of the hallway, his painted nude figure and glasses frames highlighted with the bright lights from the kitchen. He panted, but gave no reply, his smile enough to say everything.

Castiel fell into him, smushing their lips together; soft and wet and rolling - then Dean shoved him off, growling.

“Bedroom,” he panted. “Bedroom, Cas.”

Castiel took his hand, skin slipping where pre-come had rubbed with the paint. He led him past the kitchen, then to the bedroom, the entrance to which lay opposite the French windows. The door was open, and the dried flower crown they’d made together bristled as they both passed it, hung on the door handle.

Castiel didn’t turn the lights on, just led Dean, walking backwards, hands fisted in his lacy suspenders. Dean nudged the door partially closed, and it swung until the only light in the room came through the skylight.

“Wait,” Castiel said, letting go of Dean.

“Cas―?”

“Don’t worry, I only need to remove something from here,” Castiel said, pulling the door open again. He walked to his bedside cabinet, and picked up the saucer that held his two pansies. “I don’t want them watching.”

Dean scoffed, head turning to watch Castiel leave the room. He deposited the plants on the nearest kitchen island, then returned to his bedroom, shutting the door until it clicked.

Dean’s outline was in silver, the start of a moonlit rectangle stuck on the left wall, rebounding light across the whole room. Dean’s twinkling glasses frames stood out to Castiel the most, followed by the sound of his shifting hand as he touched himself; wet and loud.

Dean sighed a shaky sound, and he lay back on the bed. “Satin...”

“Satin is my lucky fabric,” Castiel said with a smile. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight, either, but it makes me feel―”

“Pretty?”

“Comforted.” Castiel swallowed, knees pushing to Dean’s at the edge of the bed, hand pulling on his cock as he stood over the other man. “I missed you this week.”

Dean sighed, hand slowing. “Same.”

Castiel craned over Dean, admiring the pale skin that was painted by the moonlight as equally as it was painted by random colours. His sheets would be stained by the end of their activities tonight, but he couldn’t bring himself to care; Dean made him care about nothing else.

Castiel put the softest, most loving kiss upon Dean’s lips. A prince saving his brave knight from his own demons.

Dean kissed back with a soft push upwards, hips leaving the bed to rock their middles together.

They moved the kiss closer to the centre of the bed, Dean shuffling back on his ass, Castiel following without looking at anything but Dean’s face. Dean removed his spectacles, flopping on the bed to reach the nightstand. They clattered on the wood, and then Dean remained lying there, a slow purr in his chest.

“I fucking love these bedsheets,” he whispered.

Castiel chuckled, a hand dragging down Dean’s cock, feeling where its flesh met the fabric that could no longer hold it. Dean surged his hips to fill his hand, another drawn-out moan coming from his closed mouth.

“Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Rub on me...”

Castiel slunk downwards, a thumb easing Dean’s panties a little further towards his thighs, exposing his cock some more. Dean coiled against the sheets as their bodies pressed together, Castiel’s weight sending electric shocks of sensation through them both.

Castiel grasped Dean’s shoulders, and began to ride against him.

Dean shuddered, his vocalisation as broken as his breath, hands shaking, taking Castiel’s hips, his ass, his lower back, his hair, his neck. Dean wanted to touch every part of him, and Castiel didn’t stop rocking against him, feeling every touch.

“Oh - Cas―”

“Dean...”

Dean laughed, the sound lost to another groan. His head pressed back into the pillow, the satin under him wrinkling softly, so smooth under the fingers Castiel slipped below Dean’s body to hold him.

Castiel’s own voice made sounds he never told it to make, let them free without his knowledge. He heard the long, dragging, droning calls, and seconds passed before he realised they came from him.

Dean loved those sounds. Every whisper of Dean’s name on Castiel’s breath made Dean leak pre-come against his own belly, smearing wet heat between them, letting their thrusts guide them home.

Dean gritted out a noise, maybe words, _love you_ , maybe a sigh, maybe Castiel’s imagination.

Castiel peppered kisses to Dean’s cheek, to his neck, smelling paint on him, and the salt of his sweat. Dean’s breaths made his collarbones shift, his skin pulling, beautiful.

“Harder... harder,” Dean gasped, a hand set fully against Castiel’s ass, squeezing a buttock. “Do it so hard I can’t walk.”

Castiel nosed at Dean’s ear, kissing him there, biting his ear. He thrust against him harder, rutting deeper into his flesh, but he didn’t want to hurt Dean. Even with the delighted yelp Dean gave, reacting to the roll of his cock as Castiel’s belly pushed onto it, crinkled its delicate skin, he couldn’t go harder. He kissed Dean’s ear over and over, lips travelling to the unwashed skin behind it, to his neck, to his throat.

Dean cried out into the small room, head tipped back so Castiel could nip at his Adam’s apple. His soft calls were felt under Castiel’s lips, vibrating under his teeth as he touched his mouth to Dean’s stubbly skin.

“Oh fuck,” Dean breathed, whining after. “Shit, Cas, I love you―!”

“So I did hear you right,” Castiel muttered, nuzzling Dean’s cheek, words mouthed against his jaw.

Dean grasped Castiel’s hair, fingers tugging on his rumpled locks. He groaned into Castiel’s face, then set their lips together, a hot kiss connecting them in ways Castiel couldn’t begin to fathom.

His tongue slid against Dean’s, retracing the patterns and tastes that he’d tasted before, weeks before. He’d craved this, wished for it, imagined the moments replayed and replicated, but it had never been this good. His mouth was inundated with sensation and flavour; the sugary grape juice, Dean’s saliva, the scent of paint that still dried upon their skin. Stubble against his sore lips, teeth sliding on his tongue.

“Caaasss,” Dean murmured, punctuating the flow of sound with kisses over kisses, touches of his lips to Castiel’s. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Castiel held his hips tightly, fingering the suspenders again. The material rumpled a little at his thighs, but the burn of it was nothing compared to the thick and pulsing feel of _skin_ under him. Dean’s cock was so firm under his, he could feel every part of it. Its curve pressed to his own member, Dean’s foreskin shifting with Castiel’s heavy surges.

Dean’s mouth found Castiel’s earlobe, and he nibbled him, tugging at the skin, before breathing out against him. “Cas, _Cas_ \- Castiel,” he said, clearly, words floating on his sigh. “God, you make me feel... so much. I wanna - _have_ so fucking _much_ with you.”

Castiel eyes stared open at the bed he rode against, Dean’s words lost as Dean began to moan again. Castiel couldn’t repeat those words, they had passed by, and all he could do was race for climax, faster rather than harder, a echoed declaration of love in every movement of his hips.

Dean whined and grappled for Castiel’s whole body, legs wrapped around him, bumping his ass with his crossed ankles.

Castiel grunted as he moved. Orgasm was nearing for him, he could feel a sparkle building inside him, ready to let free a winged dove, a magic trick. Dean clutched him tighter and tighter, and Castiel wanted to flip them over, let himself relax onto the cool sheets and let Dean ravage him, but he couldn’t break his rhythm. Thrust, thrust, thrust.

Dean panted, shoving Castiel upward a little. “Come on me,” he said, mouth open as he fought for air. “If you’re gonna come - _mmh_ \- do it on me.”

Castiel nodded, head rolling against Dean’s as he sank back to him, closer than before. He could feel Dean’s heart thudding under his skin. “Where on you?”

Dean’s breath fluttered, seemingly surprised that Castiel agreed, or maybe that he would clarify such a thing. “Oh― On... ohhh _uuhh_ \- all over me. All on my sk- skin, on my panties... Fuck... fuck...”

Castiel could feel Dean’s cock pulsing more liquid out, his scrotum tightening, hips dragging more into Castiel’s body than ever before. Dean was burning hot, silver skin like that of an angel, that which Castiel had sought his whole existence. Beauty beyond compare.

When his whisper fell from his lips, a message for Dean alone, Castiel hoped God was listening, and would take the words as due thanks for sending Dean to him. “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean kissed Castiel firmly on the lips, tongue filling his mouth, wetness pressed to the corners of their lips.

Castiel regrettably had to break the kiss - but only so he could pull back, aching as he sat on his haunches, hand fisting his cock, furious fast pulls and tugs bringing him to the brink, to the edge, to his peak―

Castiel watched his release spill from him, spreading from between his thumb and fingers, almost glowing in the faint moonlight. Dean’s open legs spread wider, moans from his mouth reverberating in the room; the liquid splashed hot on his skin, on his abdomen. Thickly it collected, still falling, still causing Castiel unbearable pleasure; he wanted to close his eyes and enjoy it, but that could never compare to seeing Dean enjoy this so much.

Semen fell and spread on Dean’s black underwear, dots on the suspender, thinner wetness soaking into the fabric, invisible. Dean shivered and trembled, sitting up on his elbows to watch the last of Castiel’s orgasm descend onto his body, a white line of heat on the underside of Dean’s fat, meaty cock.

Dean’s eyes almost rolled back in his head as he fell to the satin sheets, legs collapsing apart, hips turning upwards on strong muscles. Castiel ran his hand against Dean’s cock, stroking him while fighting off the immediate need to sleep. He wanted to see Dean undone the same way.

It didn’t take any more than thirty seconds; the slickness of Castiel’s come made the rubbing fast, made Dean excited; it was as wet and messy as he said he liked, splashes across his body pooling randomly, drowning amongst the coloured paint.

Dean spilled a heavy load like Castiel had; thick as starch, warm as it ran down Castiel’s palm. Castiel moaned at how it felt, how Dean looked as he climaxed. Mouth and eyes open, hands relaxed, breath not stopping nor starting, body in a firm, fluid stasis.

And then he mewled, the tiniest of squeaks from his mouth, eyes falling shut.

Castiel didn’t take any time to think as he crawled up to rest beside Dean, collapsing onto the bed, making the mattress judder. The satin was cool and soothing against his scalding skin, but as silence reigned for a few minutes, the sweat on his back made him cold.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered.

Dean snored.

Castiel’s disappointment was fleeting; with a sleepy sigh, he reached over Dean’s body and pulled up the part of his bedsheets that trailed on the floor. He lay the cover over Dean, then returned to the other side and pulled up the opposite fold. He wriggled closer, pushing his body into Dean’s hip, leg over Dean’s to allow them to stay together.

He didn’t manage a single coherent thought before he slipped away, mind coated by colour as dark as red paint in the moonlight.


	15. Nights in White Satin

Castiel awoke in the same position he’d fallen asleep, but significantly more uncomfortable. His skin itched from the dried paint, sweat, and come, and he was aching in places he didn’t know could ache so much. Everything between his shoulders and knees felt like it was solidifying post-mortem. However disgustingly lethargic his body felt, he still felt trickles of lasting pleasure, because Dean was still pinned under his leg, and he was warm, and he snored.

Castiel crawled out of bed, taking a moment to rest at the foot of it, buttocks sliding on the white satin, eyes cupped under his bitter-smelling palms. He ran his hands down his face, feeling paint peeling on his cheek, then he combed his fingers back through his hair. He needed a shower, and he hoped dearly Dean would still be lying here when he got back.

✿

Once Castiel returned, Dean slid from the bed, a slow laugh and a gentle roll of his shoulders letting Castiel know that he was going nowhere, at least not right now. Castiel told him where the towels were kept, and didn’t bother looking away as Dean slumped out of the bedroom and into the light. His ass was painted, his back too; his lingerie had fallen loose on one side, and his skin was layered with marks of all kinds.

Castiel thought it satisfying.

✿

“So, I was thinking,” Dean said, announcing himself as he walked back into Castiel’s bedroom, having turned the kitchen and lounge lights off, towel around his waist. “I’m not exactly willing to go home tonight, not since your place is cat-free and all... So, my thought was... if you’re fine with it―”

“You may sleep here,” Castiel said, pulling the empty side of the bedcovers back. He set his book aside, and smiled as Dean approached, door closed again.

The bedside lamp was positioned on the opposite side than it had been for years, and the golden glass shape put curves around the room, crooked in every corner. As Dean strode towards the bed, wrinkles of light shimmered their way up his body.

“What’re you reading?” Dean asked, nodding at the book. Castiel watched his thumbs pull his towel free, letting it collapse to the carpet. His cock swung a little as he crawled into the bed, legs shifting under the satin.

“A book on floristry, actually,” Castiel told him, showing him the cover.

“Nice,” Dean said, reaching for the book, but doing no more than grazing his hand an inch from it. “Cas, can I ask somethin’?”

Castiel put the book down again, hands together in his lap. “Anything,” he said, watching Dean slide under the sheets. Dean wriggled until he was buried up to his shoulders, looking up at Castiel.

Dean was considering his question, so in the silence, Castiel turned the lamp off, plunging the room back into moonlight. The rectangle had moved some way across the room, its edge now touching Castiel’s side of the bed.

Dean cleared his throat. “Okay, so,” he said, decisively. But he lost his resolve immediately, and carried on in a somewhat more unsure manner. “I’m sleeping here right now, but, uh... like... Say I woke up in the night, and...” He moved closer to Castiel, hand reaching to slide onto his now-clean skin. Dean’s voice came softer than before, eyes closed. “If I wanted to _do_ it, could we...?”

Castiel turned onto his side, hand resting on Dean’s hip, where his lingerie was now absent. “If you would like.”

“But it’s just another once, right?”

Castiel paused, before nodding. “We could call it an accident.”

Dean breathed out a laugh, nuzzling into Castiel’s shoulder. “‘kay.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then whispered, “If you wake up in the night, wake me up too.”

Castiel kissed him, and he knew it would only make Dean fall deeper.

Dean moaned, curling his arms to Castiel’s body. “G’night, Cas.”

Castiel rolled their lips, petting Dean’s side. He let their mouths rest together, tasting the toothpaste Dean had used. “Goodnight, Dean. Sleep well.”

✿

They woke up once more, murmuring and moving together in the heated darkness.

So sleepy.

Castiel made Dean come with just his hand, and Dean fell back to sleep before Castiel found his release.

Castiel took his revenge by spilling his seed onto Dean’s body - perhaps not a punishment for Dean, but certainly, it was pleasure for Castiel.

Castiel lay for a while, finger running in circles through the mess he’d made on Dean’s tummy. When it got too sticky to play with any more, he fetched a box of tissues from his nightstand and wiped Dean clean.

He kissed his stomach once he was done, resting his face on him. He listened to his soft snores, felt the rise and fall of his chest.

He fell asleep curled against Dean’s side, arms slung around him, his lover.

✿

“Mhh? Cas?”

“I’m here.”

Dean shifted, hands twisting as he glanced towards what bound them. “Handcuffs?”

Castiel smiled, putting a kiss on Dean’s nipple, which still smelled a little like paint. “I’d rather you didn’t leave.”

Dean snorted. “If I was goin’ anywhere, I’d have gone hours ago. But like I’d leave this bed anyway. It’s made of giant panties.”

Castiel laughed, smooching at Dean’s throat. “Would you like to have sex?”

Dean’s spread his legs automatically. “Puh, ‘m not exactly gonna be able to stop you, now, am I?”

Castiel pushed kiss after kiss down Dean’s chest, pausing to suck on his nipple.

Dean sniffed. “Hey, uh... Are - are these Benny’s handcuffs?”

Castiel smiled against Dean’s belly button. “He left them here. He was teaching me how to pick my way out of them.”

Dean sat up straighter, blinking in the dark. “Really?”

Castiel chuckled, rasping his scruffy jaw against Dean’s pubic hair. “No. I pickpocketed him when he was here last.”

Dean fell back to the bed, a slow murmuring groan rattling in his body. “You sneaky sonofabitch, he could arrest you for that.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll have a great deal of trouble arresting me, given his handcuffs are both in _my_ possession, and I am now pretty good at escaping them.”

Dean laughed, head turned to the side, nose against his inner bicep. His hands twisted again, clinking the silver metal that locked him to the wooden posts at the head of Castiel’s bed. “I kinda like bein’ tied up. How’d you guess?”

Castiel kissed between Dean’s legs, then nuzzled at Dean’s mostly-soft cock. “I didn’t,” he said, smirking at the rise Dean’s cock gave, feeling his warm breath.

“You know, the last time I was tied up―”

Dean stopped abruptly, swallowing so hard Castiel heard, even from between Dean’s legs.

“Cas?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Stop for a sec.”

Castiel rested his chin just above Dean’s plumping cock, so his foreskin was prickled by Castiel’s thick stubble. Dean squirmed uncomfortably, so Castiel rested on his elbows instead, lying on his front with his own hips pressed to the mattress much further down the bed.

“I wanna tell you something,” Dean said, tone graver than Castiel expected. “It’s not sexy, it’s serious. You might wanna sit somewhere else.”

Castiel, feeling a perturbation grow solid in his chest, moved to lie beside Dean once more, looking over at the bound man. Dean crooked one knee up, still exposed and naked, but his erection was fading as he stared at the ceiling.

“I came to San Fran more than three months ago. Came with Sarah and Sam, they’d been married a couple years by then,” he said, eyes flicking from one part of the room to another. “But I wanna tell you what happened before then.”

Castiel wet his lips. “Why now? Why tell me at all?”

“Because―” Dean turned his face away, breathed out, then returned his gaze to Castiel’s, eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Because I want you to know why I’m so bad at this. Every time I talk to you I feel like I’m lying through my teeth, because I’m not...” He shut his eyes, facing upward. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Castiel kept his mouth shut. He knew a lot, but not everything. He wanted to hear it from Dean’s lips.

Dean pursed his lips and blew out a slow breath. He gripped the chains of the handcuffs, fingers wrapped around the silver links. “I can’t tell you my real name. And you gotta promise not to Google anything I tell you. I swear to God, it _will_ get me killed. And I don’t mean the friendly ‘oh he’s gonna kill me’. I mean, legit, people will hunt me down and put a bullet in my head. Or Sammy’s head. Or your head.”

Castiel clutched his arms around his own body, chilled for reasons unrelated to the lack of a blanket over him. “I promise.”

Dean nodded once, satisfied. “I was born in Kansas. I had a mom, I had a daddy. Suburban life, it was kinda great, as I heard it. Had a regular everything.”

He sighed. “Then when I was four... mom got shot. God knows what monster did it, Dad always said it was a random drive-by shooting or some fucked up shit like that. But―”

He paused, battling a sob.

Castiel reached closer, wrapping a warm hand around Dean’s chest, rubbing his ribs until he calmed. Castiel understood, and how he wished he didn’t. Cancer and bullets; too fast, too unavoidable.

“But Dad...” Dean went on, “He took off and left us, we lived with our Uncle Bobby for years. He raised us pretty good, got to shoot targets and drive cars when we weren’t doin’ schoolwork.” He sighed. “I was fifteen when Dad came back.”

Castiel wriggled right up to Dean, pulling the blanket over them both. Dean gave a soft sound of thanks.

“Dad. Dad was this... I don’t know. Drug dealer, housebreaker, pickpocket - I don’t even know, man. But he took us from Bobby, said we had work to do. Turns up with this other kid, about ten years old, named Adam. Me ‘n Sammy’s half-brother.”

Castiel blinked in surprise, wondering where the third brother was now. He had a feeling he would not have long to wait until he found out.

“At some point, Dad cheated on Mom.” Dean shook his head, jaw twitching. “That fact still slays me, you know?”

He exhaled, then went on, “And Dad trained us. Got us ready for something big. I was good at lockpicking, safe-cracking. I still am. We literally spent ten years roaming around from city to city, motel to motel... looting shops, looting small businesses.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s sternum, offering another promise: his silence, he’d never say a word about Dean’s crimes. Dean grinned at him though, and Castiel kissed the smile before lying back down.

“You’re such a sap, Cas,” Dean tutted. He shook his head, then got back to his story. “We met some pretty nasty people along the way. Criminals aren’t just criminals, there’s people - _people_ out there, who do bad things for the right reasons. But then there’s the other side. The people who will hurt other people just for nothin’, ‘cause they like seeing other people hurt.

“But anyway. Dad vanished when I was twenty-five. Was gone for, like, eight days. And he comes back, covered in blood, and it’s the - fucking craziest thing. He tells us to pack, we’re leaving town. And he washes up, and Adam, Sammy n’ me are sitting there waiting to go. We never asked questions, ‘cause Dad was in charge, so we went with it.

“We took the car, hit the gas, and headed to New York.”

Dean stopped speaking, staring above, eyes not moving. Then he blinked, and began again. “Met this chick called Bela up there. She showed us how to rob companies, private homes. All stuff in skyscrapers and fancy apartments.” He smirked at Castiel, a cute smile on his lips. “Kinda like this place.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, waiting for more.

“And I was fucking great at it, too.” Dean shrugged, handcuffs clicking. “I think the point of it was, I was the captain of the dream team. Sammy did the intel work, got us into the building, did all the planning and the logistics. Adam acted. Grifter, con artist. He was only _twenty_ , but he could act fourteen, he could act thirty. People bought his shit, and we were in.

“I’d show up, I’d get in there and I’d break open the safe.” He smiled, something wistful in the way his eyes travelled the ceiling. “Sometimes it was giant wads of cash, sometimes diamonds.”

He grinned, chuckling. “You ever held raw uncut diamonds?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“It’s like holding a tiny planet. There’s so much in there, so much time pressed together like that.”

He spoke about diamonds the same way he spoke about flowers.

Still smiling, he cleared his throat. Then then smile wavered. “It took us a while, but we started wondering where the hell the money we were stealing was going. We trusted Dad, obviously. Dad was boss, I did what Dad said. Anything. Everything. I didn’t even think outside of what he said.”

“That can’t be a good way to live,” Castiel said, eyes lowered to watch Dean breathe. “In my life, my father would order me, and I would fight it. And yet I still had no choice.”

Dean sighed sympathetically. “It’s shit.”

“Quite.”

“We, uh... We started getting messages and stuff - from anonymous people. They made it pretty clear they knew our names, what we did, and where we were, all the time. Didn’t matter what motel or hotel or apartment we lived at or squatted at, they knew where to put the notes. And all those notes said was that they’re gonna find us no matter what.”

He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring. Castiel smoothed his hand down his tummy, curling his fingers through his thin pubic hair.

“We found out... Dad was paying someone off. That’s where our money was going. That’s why he moved us to New York, so we could help him steal millions of bucks rather than petty cash. He was paying someone not to tell, not to expose him. Because... Dad had... killed... someone, more than a year back, that night he came in covered in blood. I always figured he killed the person who shot Mom. I like to think, even though he cheated on her... he still loved her. Deep down.”

His lips were trembling, and he pressed them together, making them stop. Castiel felt truly rattled, but he was nowhere near as affected by this as Dean must be. To Castiel it was just a recounted story, to Dean it was real.

Dean sucked in a breath. “And then... when I was thirty...”

He took a little while to get there, but Castiel stayed close when he did.

“Dad went missing.” Dean stared at the ceiling. Stared and stared and stared. “Never came back. Got a note from the people following us, saying he was dead. Had his gun attached to it.”

He closed his eyes, and Castiel cuddled him, cheek to his chest.

“So we figured, me ‘n Sammy ‘n Adam - what’s the point of this, why keep stealing from the rich when all we need is one hit? One more loot, and we’re set for life. It’s crazy, you know, but people don’t need millions. The life I was born to, out in the suburbs, out in the sticks with Bobby, people survive their whole lives with a few hundred thousand. The stuff out of the safes I usually broke into, there’s millions in there. Didn’t need all of it.

“So we planned a last heist. We were gonna take six hundred thousand, split it three equal ways. The plan was awesome too; we’d done a week-long scout of this one apartment. This chick lived there, about Sammy’s age. An heiress.”

“Like me?”

Dean chuckled as he saw Castiel’s smile. He nodded. “Yeah. Like you. ‘cept you weren’t a cop.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Wasn’t that a bit risky?”

Dean coughed a laugh. “You gotta ask Sammy. Turned out, he knew perfectly well she was a cop, but he didn’t tell the class. Because being the buttface he is, he went and fell in love.”

“Sarah?”

Dean grinned. “Yep. But I didn’t know that. She walked in on me looting her safe, pulled her gun on me. Sam jumped in at literally the last second, she held her fire. Everything kinda... poured out, then. Sam told her our life story, she gave us tea and cookies and didn’t call her squadron on us. She’d gotten to know Sammy, but he’d been―”

Dean glanced to Castiel, a funny smile on his lips. “He’d told her a fake name. And it was eating poor Sammy up, and it was some crazy, crazy thing - she just let us _walk_.

“I didn’t get it, I’d never fallen in love for real. Not with anyone that wasn’t a thief, anyway. When you’re a thief, you work with thieves. You boink a guy you met on a job, he raids your wallet while you sleep.” Dean blew a raspberry, unimpressed with his past self’s choice of lover.

“We took off after meeting Sarah, she stayed behind. We still didn’t have our loot, though. So we were gonna do it again. Whole shebang, whole new con.

“This time, we were stupid. We never got it done. Sam was still hung up on Sarah, so he wasn’t paying attention. Adam wanted more money, said this con wasn’t worth the hassle if we only walked away with two hundred grand each. Me, I didn’t care any more.”

Dean tensed all over, and Castiel thought he knew why before Dean even spoke.

“There was a chick. One I slept with,” Dean started, a guilty puff of air curling over his moonlit lips. “She helped me shoot up for the first time. And it was a good first time, nothing bad happened. It kind of registered to me like fun. And it made the sex good - better.” He swiped his lips with his tongue, shaking his head, the satin under his hair fizzling with sound.

“Drugs started happening. Started raiding small stores again just to get by, because whatever, I was fucking good at not getting caught. Started drinking, it just seemed easy to fall into that. Dad used to drink the same stuff.”

He swallowed hard, something haunting in the way he stared at nothing.

“My dick didn’t work for a pretty long time after that. Couldn’t get it up, ‘cause shooting up killed everything in me. I was walking around... like a ghost, my face didn’t even look like mine any more.”

After a few moments, he broke out of his strange reverie, then said, “But we never got that big break; no loot.”

He sighed and rolled towards Castiel, resting his face on the side of his arm, thumbs rubbing the edges of his handcuffs. Castiel rested his nose against Dean’s, putting a single kiss to his lips.

“The anonymous notes caught up with us,” Dean said, solemnly.

“Weren’t they for your father?”

Dean’s eyebrows bounced. “That’s what we thought, too. But now they were after us.”

“Why?”

“They said they wanted us for a job.” Dean cast his eyes down. “Seemed a pretty easy one, too. Residential house, locked safe under the floorboards. They gave us plans of the house and alarm system codes and everything. Seemed like all they wanted us to do was the dirty work: breaking and entering. They didn’t want their hands dirty.”

“Did you do it?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean said, shrugging, like it was obvious. “As far as we knew, these were the people who killed Dad. Maybe Mom too. We might get to meet them, get some info on them. I was so _out_ of it back then, I remember... I remember thinking, if I ever found them, I’d kill them. I didn’t care who they were, whether they actually did kill my parents, I just felt like they should die.”

His lips tensed, and he swallowed twice, before meeting Castiel’s eye again. “We got in there, and the first thing that happened, someone crept out of the shadows and put a gun to Adam’s head.”

Dean took in a gigantic breath, old anger boiling in him. He writhed in the bed, turned back to look up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t even think. I had powder in my system, so the moment the guy clicked the barrel... I shot him with my daddy’s gun. Bang.” Dean poked a finger at his forehead. “Dead.”

Castiel’s blood chilled.

Dean turned his face away to the wall, his voice wobbling, “We left town. So fast, god, I don’t think we stopped for anything. Drove for ten, fifteen hours, can’t remember what state we ended up in. I shouldn’t even have been driving, I was coked out of my mind. I can’t remember what Sam thought... I - I should ask him. Adam was shaken - well, he would be - but he was fine.”

“Why did they want Adam?” Castiel asked, smoothing his hand down Dean’s chest, under the blanket. “Did Adam kill someone?”

Dean scoffed. “Nah.”

“Then...?”

Castiel heard a wet sound from Dean’s turned face. Maybe he was crying.

“Sarah found us in under a week,” Dean said. “She’d been tracking us, same as the anonymous bastards. She showed up on the doorstep of our motel, and we thought she’d come to book us. But she told us she had a lead on our anons. She did, and it was decent at first. But it was dead end. Always, dead ends. It was like these guys were invisible. We couldn’t even go to the police for help, and Sarah knew what happened by then, she knew I’d killed someone. I’d go to jail for life, given my crimes.

“As it turned out... the anonymous lot were the same people who killed her parents. She’d been after them for years, it’s why she became a cop. And - heh - not just a regular cop, the kind that hunts these people. Hunts people like us, too.”

He shook his head, sniffing as he rolled over, shiny eyes turned on Castiel. “The notes started coming for her, as well. Always that they’d find us. All of us. We were in it together.”

He started smiling, a change that unnerved Castiel.

“Sarah helped me get clean, she’s good like that. Took a year. She didn’t stop us doing crime, she even helped a bit, sometimes, ‘cause we needed the money. But we were too scared by then, the notes were coming daily, and we weren’t doing anything but running. I didn’t get why these people didn’t just break into our place, kill us. It was just notes under the door.

“But then, one time, they slid us a note saying we’re marked. That they’re gonna kill us.”

Dean curled his hands into his hair. “We walked into a police station and Sarah flashed her badge, and they took us into protective custody. Just like that. These guys, the people tailing us for half our lives, they were part of some... freaky cult, I guess. They’d never enter unless invited, like vampires or something.” He shrugged. “And the cops knew about it. We thought we were safe for once.”

“Did the police know you... m- murdered someone?”

Dean folded his arms across his head. “Yeah, I had to ‘fess up to get the protection. After seeing the list of crimes they already had me on, the confession was enough to put me in jail, but they needed me. Cut a deal, sell out the other thieves I worked with, and I stay outta jail indefinitely.

“But at this point I was totally clean, and while we were stationed in Massachusetts with fake names, I was taking care of Sammy. He was training to be a lawyer - paid for by the state. He had the brains, they figured he was a good kid, they helped him out. Sarah went back into nurse training. She wanted to quit the cop job, it was killing her the same way drugs were killing me. It took her cleaning _me_ up to get her to realise that chasing these bastards was an addiction.”

Castiel nodded, fingers curling around Dean’s as he kept them tucked against his pillow.

“So I sold everyone out, in court. Squealed like a fucking pig,” Dean said. “Pretty much everyone I worked with or slept with - like, ever. Names, jobs, locations. Some of my memory was fuzzy, mostly towards the end, when I was blitzed.”

He sighed. “And protective custody was good. We got what we needed, which was mostly not to die. Got a place to live, got everything. But―”

“The notes came again?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “No, I slept with someone.”

“Oh.”

Dean unfolded his arms, hands moving to play with Castiel’s fingers, holding that hand a few inches above his eyes. “I just met him in a bar. Just a guy. Nice muscles, smooth voice. I took him back to the apartment, fucked him all night.” Dean shut his eyes tight, frowning deeply, hand squashing Castiel’s.

Finally he opened his eyes, and breathed, “Woke up next morning and he was gone. Adam― Adam’s throat got slit.”

Castiel gasped, heart thudding, sitting up in bed before he even noticed he’d moved. Dean’s hand clutched his with such force that Castiel cried out, distracted from the horror that curled inside him. Dean put a kiss to Castiel’s palm, apologising.

Castiel, shaking all over, leaned across Dean, lay his body mostly over him, and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Dean. “I’m sorry that happened.”

Dean blinked away tears, hands cupping the back of Castiel’s neck. “Me too,” he croaked.

He nudged Castiel, and Castiel lay on his side again, hugging Dean.

“It was the same guys,” Dean said, quietly. “They were after us, and I’d invited the dude right into my bed. He had his dick in my ass for most of the night, for fuck’s sake. And then he murdered my baby brother.”

Castiel felt a tear roll from his eye, heart still thudding.

“That alias was toasted. So we packed up, and the government drove us to Texas. Just me, Sammy, and Sarah. Felt wrong without Adam.” Dean took a long breath in, then out. “I don’t know why they wanted him. It’s like our family owed them or something, fuck knows.”

“You still don’t know?”

“I... have a vague idea. I figure Dad killed more than one of them, and they were trying to make even with us. They stopped after Adam. Never heard from them again. And I...” He whimpered under his breath, hands on the handcuffs clutching even tighter. “I hope I never do.”

He took a minute to ease himself, but soon enough, he nodded and continued from where he left off.

“We were only in Texas for a couple weeks, stationed between two towns. One night I brought two guys home, a couple. They said they liked my car. One really beefy macho dude with a ton of tattoos, one other dude with glasses. I thought they were pretty cute.” Dean shrugged, oblivious to the pang of jealously Castiel felt.

“Turned out, my car had pinged someone’s radar, being out there. She stood out; she had a real nice everything, you know? The guys I brought home had recognised it.

“I woke up, middle of the night like last time, this time those guys were inking me up. Knife, ink, needle. Gun to my head.” Dean’s voice had become monotone, like he was recollecting this part for the hundredth time. He gulped and rolled over, showing Castiel the scarred blotchy X on his bicep.

“These guys,” he said, “were buddies of the guys and girls I sold out. So we had the cult off our backs, but now it was this. Witness Protection wasn’t doing so great at protecting us, but Sammy? Sammy blamed me. For the second time... I let _in_ the guys who wanted to hurt us. I’d been the one who insisted we keep the car. It was my fault we had to leave again.”

Dean licked his lips, looking Castiel in the eye. “The night they carved this tattoo on me, that was the last time I wore handcuffs.”

Castiel frowned, looking quickly at the cuffs, reaching for them.

“Cas, it’s fine,” Dean said, breathing out a laugh. “I’m good. I said I like being tied up. That night was bad, yeah, but I’ve had worse times in my life. I don’t exactly remember it for the handcuffs, more the knife and the ink and the smell of my blood all of that.”

Castiel snuggled against Dean’s shoulder, still hurting from this story. If this was what other people’s lives were like, he ought to be happy with his own, no matter how boring it was.

Finally, he understood why Dean had once asked him about whether his life was ‘safe’. With all this behind him, Castiel was not surprised that Dean sought refuge with gentle people and nice flowers.

Dean continued, “The cops moved us to the east coast, and my car went into storage. I, um... I’m not exactly proud of it, but I messed around with one of our handlers on the way out. Cute Jewish guy. Had a quickie in the back of the van in exchange for smokes. A week after we parted ways... he got kidnapped, and accidentally gave away how I’d be moved.

“He was a really quiet guy, but he, uh, babbled when he got nervous. I don’t blame him, never have. And he got out fine. Actually, Charlie looked him up for me, he’s still doing his thing,” Dean said with a lopsided smile.

“Needless to say, I quit smoking after that. But, basically, I was blown again. Nobody tried to tattoo me this time, but a marksman had lasers on my back while I walked to the courthouse to testify again. Some random Tuesday. Some cop threw me down, and the bullet never hit me.” He smiled, nosing at the top of Castiel’s hair.

He put a kiss to the crown of Castiel’s head, and sighed. “Then they moved us to San Fran.”

Castiel lifted his head. “Three months is a record for you.”

“Three months - and man, I hope that keeps going up. Benny’s got my back, he’s probably fielding out my would-be hitmen right now.” He peered down at Castiel, smiling sweetly. “Since going into WitSec, Cupid’s Bow’s been the first job I’ve been able to hold down, which is pretty great. You’re the first guy I’ve done this with.”

“Done...?”

“The bed therapy session. And the love thing.” Dean smirked, maybe blushing. “But, uh, that’s... my life story. Pretty much. And I can’t tell you my real name. But I know why you told me a fake name, I get that. It’s what people do when they want to hide things.”

Castiel snorted against Dean’s chest. “All I wanted to hide was that I was rich and powerful.”

“That’s what people do,” Dean said. “Prince and the pauper, right? Become someone else for a day.” He shrugged, making the handcuffs clink. “It’s cool, Cas, you just didn’t want to be a snooty heir for a bit, and you liked how it was.”

“Yes.”

Dean sighed. “I still kinda feel like I’m outta your league.”

Castiel laughed, crawling a little closer, putting a kiss on the tip of Dean’s chin. “You _are_ my league.”

Dean’s smile made Castiel’s stomach flutter.

“You, um, still feel like eating ass, or you wanna sleep now?”

Castiel chuckled, his breath hazing over Dean’s skin. “I must apologise, but I think you dessicated the mood quite sufficiently. Of the two options... I would rather sleep.”

Dean hummed, settling down between the satin shimmer.

“I ought to unbind you.”

“Oughta, yeah. But don’t bother―” Dean yawned noisily, “―we can do it later.”

“I have the lockpick right here.”

“Sssshhh, Cas, I’m sleeping.”

Castiel nestled his head against Dean’s underarm, still thinking about his story. “Dean?”

“Mh?”

“Do you feel better now? Having told me all of that?”

Dean smiled, cracking open an eye. He nodded. “Yeah. You cried, Cas. I take that as a good sign for my future.”

“What future?”

Dean smiled wider, closing his eyes. “All of it.”

✿

Dean blinked his eyes open, feeling a blur over his vision, even in the dark. Hearing himself grunt, he rubbed a thumb against each eye, dislodging the grit in the corner of each.

His arms felt heavy and partially numb, his wrists and hands were cold. A small chain dragged over his forehead as he sighed through his nose, relaxing. He could feel Castiel curled beside him, breath warm, his cheek sticky with sweat where they’d been pressed together for what must have been hours.

Dean turned his legs, meaning to get closer to Castiel, easing the ache in his lower back―

His bladder twinged as he moved, and he screwed his face up against the satin pillow, groaning into it. “Caaas,” he complained, butting at Cas’ head with his elbow, since his hands remained bound to the headboard.

“Caaas,” he repeated, exactly the same again.

Castiel shifted, inhaled slowly, deeply, waking from sleep.

“Cas.”

“Gh?”

“Gotta pee,” Dean said, turning onto his side and leaning his thigh against Castiel’s, leg hair brushing together under the duvet. “Lemme out...”

“I’m not stopping you,” Castiel replied, nuzzling his face into Dean’s shoulder, wiping a touch of drool against his skin.

“You are, actually. Get the lockpick.” Dean’s voice was thick and bleary, a weight in his throat. He swallowed, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth; he was a little thirsty, too.

Castiel took a few sleepy moments to piece together exactly what Dean was saying, but when he did, he shuffled away, towards the nightstand with the lamp. He didn’t turn it on, as Dean had expected, but simply bumped something that made a metallic jangling sound, a key against wood, perhaps.

The two of them fumbled as the seconds passed, Castiel’s heavy body making the bed dip, Dean coiling his own legs around each other to quell the pressure in his abdomen. He spread his hands outward as Castiel fit the key into the lock, but Dean was not released straight away.

“Cas, what’re you doin’?”

“I have to pick it, I don’t have a key,” Castiel said, breathily, concentrating. He took hold of one of Dean’s thighs and pulled it off the other, then made the bed rock again as he settled himself, kneeling between Dean’s open legs.

Dean grunted, trying to pull his legs together again, but finding Castiel sat firmly against his crotch, his own thighs under Dean’s. “How long’s it gonna take,” Dean said, trying not to push the muscle on his bladder to gauge how desperate he really was.

Castiel didn’t answer, just hummed and leaned closer, the metal tool in the lock of the handcuffs making _tick-tick?-clink_ sounds. Dean could barely see, as the moon had long ago passed over the skylight and there were no other windows, but he could sense Castiel craning over his body. Hot skin, his weight poised. Looming.

“Cas, I really gotta go,” Dean whispered, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Castiel hummed again, acknowledging.

“Dude, turn the light on.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Castiel replied. _Clink... tink-tink, chkk..._

Castiel then sighed and rearranged himself, elbows either side of Dean’s body. He lowered himself to get closer to the handcuffs―

Dean yelped. “Christ― Cas, no... no―”

Castiel pulled off quickly, panting as he patted at Dean’s body, testing, questioning. “Did I hurt you?”

Dean released a soft breath through pursed lips, staring at the blackness above him. “Nah. Nah, I’m good.”

Castiel was frowning, Dean knew it. But he leant back down, set himself in the same position, on his front, chest against Dean’s open legs.

Dean didn’t let Cas hear his gasp, nor feel his inner convulsion. Such a pressure was put on him, Castiel’s weight, pressing just on the edge of the Dean’s desperation.

There was a sensation there, something bordering on sexual. Maybe fully sexual. A contained, pleasurable feeling. It felt good to Dean. Like... boner worthy.

“Dean...?”

“Don’t stop.”

Castiel pulled back slightly, Dean sensed his head tip down, looking for but not seeing Dean’s rising erection. His cock filled up slowly, the smooth rocking of Castiel’s accidental movement making Dean wobble, and _oh_ , when he was fully hard, he felt it. He could feel everything.

More seductive this time, Dean insisted, “C’mon, let me outta these things. I gotta piss, Cas.”

It shouldn’t feel hot, saying it like that. But it did.

Dean was blushing, he could feel his ears burning, his hands clenched into nervous fists. In the light, he would never have the courage to play like this.

Castiel lay back down, belly to Dean’s erection. Belly to Dean’s bladder.

Dean moaned, head rolling sideways into the pillow.

Castiel obviously hadn’t taken long to catch on to what Dean was feeling. Dean heard him set down the lockpick, a hand― Oh, a hand. A hand slid up Dean’s chest, played with his nipple.

“Cas... What’re you doing?”

“You like this, don’t you?” Castiel asked, a curiosity in his question far more innocent than the touch to Dean’s cockhead would indicate he really held. “Do you mind if I touch you while you’re...”

“Desperate?” Dean offered, a twang of sarcasm on the word.

“Yes,” Castiel whispered, groaning deeply as he stretched out over Dean’s body, hips against Dean’s, a heavy thrust pressing into him. Dean cried out, hands tense on the chains of the handcuffs. He felt like he could burst.

Cas was hard now. His hands smoothed Dean’s sides, soft and gentle over his shoulders.

Fingers dipped into Dean’s mouth, and Dean breathed on them, tongue poking to lick their tips. Cas’ skin was salty, bed-warm. Dean closed his lips and sucked, a low rumble in his throat as Castiel slid his fingers free, wetness tracing Dean’s mouth, dragging his flesh, feeling its shape in the blind dark.

“Cas...”

“I like this.”

“You― _uhh!_ You like what?” Dean squirmed, hips rolling upward, spine curving to press himself against Castiel. He felt wet inside, as if he could actually feel his full bladder against Castiel’s skin.

Castiel moaned again, kissing Dean’s neck, soft and moist; moving, moving down across his clavicle. “Mhh. I like...”

Kiss, kiss, tickling - until he reached Dean’s nipple, and then it became a blasting sensation, a set of fireworks under Dean’s skin; Castiel nibbled his hard nub, suckled it, and Dean called out into the small room, _wailing_ , dizzy with that crazy, ruining pleasure.

Castiel licked one last time, and blew... cold air, cold breath across Dean’s nipple. Dean whimpered, hands twisting against their binding.

“I like making you weak,” Castiel breathed, open mouth leaving a sigh against Dean’s stomach, bristling fine hairs. “Powerless and helpless and...” Castiel sank a fierce kiss against Dean’s middle, pressing his fucking _nose_ against the exact spot where Dean’s bladder strained. Dean sobbed, unable to stop his hips bucking in slow motion, craving more of that electricity, that filthily covetous way that Castiel kissed his belly.

Castiel murmured quietly, hands rubbing in circles where they held the meat of Dean’s hips. Towards Dean’s face, he directed his whisper, “I like making you want me.”

“I already want you,” Dean whispered back, a strain in his voice. “God, Cas...”

“Tell me how desperate you are,” Castiel said, teeth on Dean’s hips. He spoke against his skin, “Tell me how much you need me.”

“Need you to let me go.” Dean’s heart was pounding, excited, confused by how much he liked this. He’d never done this before. Not this way, not feeling like this.

Castiel mouthed his way to Dean’s cock, a hand flat on Dean’s middle, pressing, _pressing_.

But then he stopped, eased his hands, took a breath as he pulled up. “Really?”

Dean frowned into the darkness that somewhere held Castiel. “Well, I... I wasn’t kidding when I said I had to go, but... um.”

“How will I know if you want to stop?”

Dean chuckled, toes curling. “You mean if I’m actually about to piss on you?” He blushed harder, glad Castiel couldn’t see it. “Safeword?”

“Biscuits,” Castiel said.

Dean laughed, thighs tensing and untensing as he tried to hold back any kind of relaxation. Laughter made him tingle, made him pulse. “‘Biscuits’ it is.”

Castiel put his hand on Dean again, softly sliding.

Then he stopped again, and breathed out over Dean’s sternum. “Dean, would you like to use the safeword now?”

Dean was too hard to pee anyway. He shook his head, feeling hot, experiencing arousal like it was a new feeling, like it wasn’t something he felt every day. “Nah. Keep... Keep going.”

Castiel purred, sinking his body into Dean’s, kisses on his heart, hands on his hips, gently rubbing their cocks together.

Dean didn’t know whether he was more desperate to take a leak or come.

When Castiel rested his mouth on Dean’s navel, Dean spread his legs further through the satin, despite knowing it would make him feel more like he needed to go. Maybe that was the point.

This pressure inside him, it was incredible. He felt _more_ because he was full, every lick-moistened kiss that Castiel put on the underside of his cock felt like Heaven. Castiel’s hands rubbed circles on his middle, consistent pressure, hands moving so Dean _felt_ it.

It was almost an angry feeling; angry, gentle touching. Dean was so fucking turned on by how Cas touched him. All hands, all mouth, total and utter possession. Like Dean belonged to him.

Dean swallowed. “Cas... Cas, I gotta ask somethin’.”

Castiel tongued Dean’s raphe, then kissed the tip of his cock before lifting his head, hands curled loosely on the bed sheets, thumbs still touching the crease under Dean’s ass. “Yes, Dean.”

He had to tell Cas his secret. There were some things that were a lifetime more important than getting off in the middle of the night.

But Dean wasn’t brave enough to explain to Cas why he needed to stop using his mouth on him, right now, right the _fuck_ now. Dean didn’t want to ruin this moment, despite his hazy mind being fully aware that in not saying anything, he could be ruining Castiel’s whole _life_. 

He reverted to his backup question; still relevant, but not the confession he needed to give.

Coward. _Murderer_.

“Is this just... like...” Dean juggled his thoughts, still sleep-weary, mind blazing with lust, body aching for release of all kinds. “This is just a bedroom thing, isn’t it? The dirty talk and all that?”

“How do you mean?” Castiel’s thumbs started grazing Dean’s inner hips, against the soft skin, against the pokey bone.

“Like, you don’t actually wanna make me weak and powerless and everything, right?”

Castiel rumbled a slow note against Dean’s tummy, throat vibrating against him. “No,” he said, softly. “No, Dean, you’re strong.”

“So we’re just playing?”

Castiel nodded, hair and fuzzy jaw rustling against Dean’s skin.

“Good,” Dean said, “‘cause I could strangle you with my thighs. Just sayin’.”

Castiel smiled widely, Dean felt it against him. Cas’ breath caught, then broke free, gushing over Dean’s hipbone. “ _Ohh_ , Dean, I’ve thought about this for so long...”

Dean licked his lips, raising his hips, encouraging Castiel to kiss him there again.

Castiel grumbled, breath pushing and drifting against Dean, wet trails left behind as he moved his mouth downward, smacking kisses, smooches, the tip of his tongue dipping into the give of Dean’s skin. Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head as Castiel’s hot, _hot_ mouth took his length inside.

Castiel sucked him down.

Deep.

_All the way down_.

Dean couldn’t tell if he passed out, everything was black already. He had trouble remembering how to breathe, let alone focus on anything but how he felt - how Castiel was making him feel.

In the dark, there was nothing but the touch. Nothing but the scent of himself, his pre-come, the scent of Castiel’s soap and his skin, musky and heated by his arousal.

Dean felt a shooting, spiralling energy inside him, between his legs, inside his whole body. His head was empty, lungs empty; everything worth having was where Castiel sucked on him.

Castiel bobbed his head, tongue dancing on the wrinkles under Dean’s foreskin, lips plucking at the most sensitive parts of him. He knew exactly what he was doing, doing to _Dean_. Dean’s heart beat a tattoo against his ribs, letters of a name, a name he didn’t have the breath to whisper.

He had never felt anything quite this phenomenal.

Hands held him down. They allowed him to buck, let him hit the back of Castiel’s throat without so much as a cough in retaliation. He could feel the grainy slide of Cas’ throat against his cockhead, tongue massaging his raphe, lips swelling as they moved on his length.

Castiel moaned. Enjoying it.

Dean heard his own whispering cries, broken as they hastened from his lips. He panted, searching for air in what seemed like a cloud of pure lust, nothing but heat, tension and colour where he was deprived of everything else.

Castiel’s lips sucked away, smearing wetness over Dean’s slit as his mouth left him. Dean wriggled with the agony of the loss, gasping as his bladder pounded inside him.

It didn’t feel like he needed to go any more. Instead, it felt like he’d unlocked a secret place inside him that made sex twice as good, made his body spark with new sensations he could have been feeling for years, had he known before.

“Dean, I want you to know...”

“Cas, don’t stop, don’t stop― Come back...”

Castiel breathed warm and gentle air between the spread of Dean’s legs, lips touching the valley between his parted thighs. “Dean...”

“Caasssss, blow me again, I need it,” Dean said, throat raw with his breath, grunting his exhales. His hips turned upward in his desperation, begging to be finished off. “Cas.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s perineum again, nose nudging underneath Dean’s tightened scrotum. Dean tingled all over as he felt Castiel inhale his scent, the finest hairs shifting with the pulled air.

Dean swallowed, then gasped, hands twisting on the small chains that bound him. “Tell me, Cas. What― _ah!_... Whatever it was, say it. Say it, say it - fuck me, just say it―”

Castiel surged upward, body sliding over Dean’s, touching him all the way, chest to chest, hips to hips, full weight on Dean. Dean shuddered, barely holding in a scream of shock, of pleasure.

To Dean’s lips, Castiel placed the words, “I adore you. I _adore_ you.”

A younger version of Dean would have laughed, rolled away from Cas, shoved his head back down to suck him off.

But the Dean who lay beneath Castiel now, who curled upward into his touch, who let the other man hold him and worship his lips with kisses... this man, _this_ Dean, _those words_...

Dean murmured incoherently, but when Castiel broke their kiss to breathe, fingers holding onto Dean’s jaw, Dean gave his reply. “I’m yours, Cas. I’m all yours.”

Castiel put his hands into Dean’s hair, tugging at it as his kisses moved downwards again. Oh, he made such sounds; tiny groans, each one speaking something no language would ever find a word to say. His lips, his hands, they touched Dean and they made him feel. Gave him gifts.

Dean shivered as he felt Castiel’s bristled jaw rubbing on his cock, the skin of his cheek catching Dean’s foreskin, hair tickling him. Castiel’s hands returned to Dean’s belly, thumbs making minute circles, light enough only that he felt them on his skin. Yet, somehow, the sensation was intense enough that he considered that he might come from that feeling alone.

And Castiel sucked and nibbled, rubbing his cheek, making sounds Dean hoped he’d never made for anyone else.

Slow, breathy. Wet, sore lips gave Dean’s hungry aches a hundred kisses in the space of a few minutes.

It became so gentle and _easy_ that Dean would have fallen asleep, had he not felt like his body was alive with something no drug could ever provide.

If love was a physical sensation, that was how he felt now. Tender, under the watch of an angel. Feeling his caresses.

Like the first time Castiel made him come, that evening in the flower shop, he was relaxed long before the hit arrived. He sank _down_ into his pleasure and climax, rather than reaching a peak, and as ejaculate spilled from him, leaking, drooling fluid - he couldn’t fall afterwards, there was nowhere to fall from.

Perhaps that was why, Dean thought, as he struggled to cling to consciousness and sanity, perhaps that was why he loved Castiel.

Castiel wasn’t a peak, not a high of any kind. He was where Dean lay when he fell. He was the safety net spread to catch him. Strong arms and warmth, comfort willingly given.

“Fucking love how you make me come,” Dean murmured, blinking heavily. “How you slow down right before, make it go... I dunno, gentle.”

Castiel nuzzled his throat, kissing his neck. “Tell me how you feel now.”

Dean hated how difficult the question was. He couldn’t say it in words, it was just one long, long moan of heavenly goodness.

“Feel melted,” he eventually whispered. “Hot ‘n wet ‘n gooey.”

Castiel chuckled, slowly running his cock against Dean’s inner thigh. “Perhaps I should clean you up.”

“Nnnn, come on me first.”

Castiel chuckled again. “I already did.”

Dean opened his eyes, surprised. “But you’re still hard.”

“It’ll go down in a moment.”

Dean lay there, concentrating on how beautiful it felt to rest as Castiel dragged himself over Dean’s body, rutting in slow motion, hips rolling. Dean’s own abdomen felt bloated, but still he held on, enjoying the peaceful moment when Castiel finally stopped rolling, cock mostly softened.

Dean sighed as Castiel sighed, and they lay together. Castiel’s hands slid back into Dean’s hair, stroking him, petting him. He kissed Dean’s chin, then his jaw, then his neck.

Against his shoulder, Castiel muttered, “I suppose I should let you go now.”

Dean smiled. “S’pose.”

Castiel made a last heavy drag of his hand down Dean’s middle, heel of his hand digging against Dean’s abdomen. Dean’s legs twitched, followed by a writhe that curved his whole body, the pressure now somewhere closer to discomfort than pleasure.

Castiel hummed a laugh, pulling away and leaving Dean with a coldness. But the warmth returned, as did a slight weight, as Castiel began to undo the handcuffs with the lockpick.

Dean held his breath until it was done, blotting out all thought in case he jinxed it.

At last, the catch snapped open, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Castiel cupped the top of Dean’s thigh as he shuffled back, leaving Dean a space to scramble out of bed. Dean set his feet on the floor, scowling as the feeling inside him turned from sexual into what was unmistakably uncomfortable.

“Back in a bit,” he told Castiel, then hurried towards the bathroom.

✿

When Dean came back, they tried to sleep. They lay together, invisible kisses placed on all available skin, sharing touches.

They rested in the quiet, listening to each other breathe. Peace reigned between the sheets for a long while, but Dean didn’t get as far as a single snore before Castiel slid out of the bed.

“Caaaaas, come back.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Dean groped blindly at other half of the bed, but was disappointed to find Castiel had already slunk away. Grunting, aware he was thirsty too, Dean shoved himself to sitting. He turned to the side, patting the nightstand for his glasses, then he slid them onto his face, wincing at how cold they felt.

Castiel was naked, bare ass visible in the gap of the open door. Dean scrambled out of bed, chasing him.

Castiel laughed, folding over as Dean pounced on his back - he shoved at Dean until Dean dropped away, arms entwining Castiel’s body, keeping him close. Cas’ skin was so warm, his muscles firm and somehow reassuring.

“I’ll get you something too,” Castiel said, turning towards the kitchen, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the room. The sun was about to rise, the blue glow from the surrounding windows bright enough to see by.

Dean wandered towards the French windows, curiously peering out across the city. The sky was the colour of the deep end of a swimming pool, the last and brightest of the stars still shining steadfast through the dawn.

“Hey, Cas? I think the sun’s gonna come up in, like, a minute,” Dean called over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the horizon. Between the buildings around them, he had a good view of the edge of the world.

Shivering, Dean rubbed at his arms, then reached for the glass doors. He pulled down the pin from the top, then pulled up the pin from the bottom.

“You have a very nice rear,” Castiel said, approaching from behind as Dean straightened up. “If I didn’t dislike penetration so much, I’d ask if I could try it.”

Dean sent a screwy expression in Castiel’s direction, taking the tall glass tumbler of water that Castiel offered him. “What’s that supposed to mean, you don’t like penetration?”

Castiel shrugged a shoulder, leaning his arm forward to unlatch the door, letting it sway open.

A pale breeze came inside, dusty from the summer, scented low from the passing night. It was cool, but not uncomfortable, and upon it, the sound of early morning traffic carried upwards from the streets below. Dean breathed in, eyes almost closing as he felt exactly how _pink_ it was; the scent of the air matched the colour on the horizon. As he leaned into Castiel’s arm that slung around his lower back, the pink gradually bloomed with gold, followed by a watery yellow across the thin, drifting clouds.

Dean took his first sip of water. He balked as he tasted the lemon in it, but swallowed. It was quite nice.

Turning to Castiel, who was drinking too, he said, “No, really. How do you not like penetration?”

Castiel practically choked on his drink. He came up smiling, his upper lip shining with water. “Is this really a conversation for a beautiful dawn?”

“I didn’t realise there were social rules regarding the time of day these things can be talked about,” Dean rebutted, poking a finger at Castiel’s chest as he turned towards him. “So talk.”

Castiel sighed dramatically, eyes resting on the glass he held. “I don’t like condoms, for one thing.”

“Wearing them or putting them on other guys?”

Castiel frowned into his water as he tipped back another sip. He swallowed, then said, “I’ve never put one on someone else.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Never?”

“Well... no.” Castiel gave a shrug with a sideways eye-flick. “When I actually have the courage to be intimate with someone, it’s no big step for me to explain I like being in charge. On top.”

Dean’s smirk lifted one cheek, his mind on their previous romp. “Maybe you oughta try catching rather than pitching for once.”

Castiel began to smile, his eyes on the lemon in his glass as he swirled it around. “Maybe I should.”

Dean sauntered into Castiel’s space, downing the last of his water as their naked bodies pressed together at the hip. Dean whipped his glasses off, holding onto them as he leaned close. Nose to nose, Dean rolled his chin against Castiel’s mouth, breathing against him.

“I’m game,” Dean said, letting his eyelashes rove down Castiel’s high cheekbones.

Castiel almost coughed. “Now?!”

“What? No. Not if you don’t want.”

“Some other time, I’d be happy to.”

Dean mouthed around nothing for a moment, then stepped back, worrying his lip with his teeth. “Other time?”

Castiel realised what he’d said. “Oh.”

“I - I mean, if you... if you’re good with that,” Dean stuttered, putting his glasses back on and thumbing at the side of his drink, making the condensation squeak. “Daphne―”

“Doesn’t need to know.”

Dean felt a flash of terror, of guilt - but in an equal amount, he felt satisfaction. Cas wanted it too. Wanted _him_. But once more, the guilt took precedence. “My dad cheated on my mom,” he said, squinting out at the brightening sky, watching a pigeon flutter past. “And that was pretty much a tragedy.”

Castiel moved to drape an arm around Dean’s naked waist, kissing his shoulder, his scarred tattoo. “It’ll be all right.”

“No, it won’t.”

Castiel pressed his muzzle to Dean’s skin, fuzzy jaw brushing him. He breathed out through his nose, then lifted his head away, and spoke aloud exactly what Dean was already thinking: “You’re right. It won’t. It won’t be okay. We’ve spiralled too far.” He made a soft vocal sound, putting another kiss onto Dean’s collarbone, then another. “I love you, Dean. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. And I... I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” Dean’s eyes filled with tears, breaking the seal of his lips as he turned his head down. “We end this.”

Castiel stood beside him, warmth bleeding between them as they shared inches of touching skin.

Silence became the roar of the city below them, the beeps of cars, the early-morning shouts of people that seemed to come from nowhere.

Dean thought about Adam. If Dad never had an affair, Dean’s youngest brother would never have existed. The pain Dean felt now, in missing Adam from his life, could never outweigh the love he still had for his deceased sibling. On his father’s behalf, Dean did not regret that affair.

But between Dean and Castiel, it was different. There would be no child, no Adam 2.0.

Dean didn’t want to think about what his father would have done, right now. John was not accepting of Dean’s appreciation of the male form, in all its variational glory. He was the reason Dean didn’t make lovers of men, not until John passed away and could no longer do anything to stop him. John would never have been in this situation.

So Dean said what _he_ felt. Regardless of Daphne, of Castiel’s father, of what society would celebrate or frown upon.

“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” Dean said, nodding. “And not just as friends, either.”

“You wish to conduct an affair with me.”

Dean smile was small, and he let the smile rest on the side of Castiel’s face as he turned to him. “I do.”

“In that case,” Castiel whispered, “I suggest we conduct it in the bedroom. I’m getting cold.”

They shut the doors, put down their empty glasses, and fell into bed, laughing.

They tickled each other by accident, laughed some more, then lay side-by-side, gazing at each other. And then they fell back to sleep.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad start.

Little steps, as Dean said to Castiel upon waking. Tiny little steps.


	16. Spoil You

Castiel gave Dean the cold apple turnover from his fridge. Dean started to eat as he stood in the kitchen, only to have Castiel pluck the turnover back out of his hands and take a bite before returning it, flecks of pastry on his the lower half of his apologetic smile.

“I needed to check if it was really as good as you thought it was,” he explained.

“Didn’t realise I said anything.”

“Oh, you didn’t,” Castiel replied, slinking past him, a gust of fresh morning antiperspirant left in his wake. “Your face did.”

Dean followed Castiel around the apartment as Castiel gathered his things for work; a fresh paint-free shirt, a clean tie, the same leather belt from last night, pink and orange paint removed by a wet tissue.

Dean finished off his pastry, a smile on his face that he couldn’t keep down.

Cas smelled good, shower gel mixed with whatever aerosol spray he used. Often when Dean saw him, the new blast of Cas’ spray had worn thin, but right now, every time he walked past Dean, Dean breathed in deeply. He could still smell Cas’ sex scent under it, and Dean’s dick was nothing short of perky for the half an hour they crossed paths, again and again.

Once Cas had all his papers together, folded into the breast pocket of his trenchcoat, he held the front door open for Dean.

“You look a mess,” Castiel told him, side-eyeing Dean as they made their way down the hallway to the elevator. “I hope you have clean clothes.”

“At home, yeah,” Dean said, seeing the smug smile on Castiel’s face. Cas was proud of the paint on Dean’s shirt, the wreck he’d made of him.

Castiel had offered Dean some of his clothes to wear until he got home, but Dean had declined. At that point it had become unspoken between them: Dean wanted to show off what Cas had done to him. A trophy for Dean, the same way being splashed with Cas’ come was a prize. Except this time, nobody except him or Castiel would know that the paint had led to sex. There was something fun about it.

“I’ll come with you to the shop, if you like,” Castiel said, pressing the elevator button to take them to the first floor. “I don’t actually have to be at work for another hour.”

“It’s _way_ out of your way, dude,” Dean shook his head, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, watching the glowing numbers in the elevator descend. “The walk of shame isn’t meant to have an accompaniment.”

Castiel hummed a laugh, leaning the front of his shoulder against the back of Dean’s. “Is that what this is? Shame?”

Dean turned his face to Castiel’s, eyes moving between his lips and his soft gaze. “Couldn’t be further from it,” Dean assured him. “My point is that you really don’t _have_ to.”

“What if I _want_ to?”

Dean flattened his lips, failing to hide his smile. “Entirely different matter, then.”

Dean laughed as Castiel showed him how to hop onto a moving cable car - Dean had done it before, but Castiel seemed so intent on showing Dean the precise way to do it. He was so _proud_ of himself, so proud of being able to do something for which he had to take a modicum of risk. He was like a kid. One grown-up, really gentle, really loving, really _hot_... kid.

Dean stood with his hand around a brass pole of the streetcar, watching the morning sun drift over Castiel’s face as the car slid along the street. The stickiness of the day began to rise - it was only eight o’clock, but the summer was kind; it balanced the cool breeze with warm light, and Dean was more relaxed than he remembered being in years.

Castiel watched the street pass by, eyes tracking to cars as they followed the same path. The sound of the bell on the tram clanked and jangled as they stopped and started, and it sounded wonderful to Dean. Like a song, despite there only being one dull note it played over and over.

He didn’t say a word when Castiel’s hand rested beside Dean’s, their fingers touching. Dean kept on looking out at the road. But he smiled some more.

Halfway home, his phone rang, and Dean let go of the pole to fumble in his pocket.

“Hello?”

“ _Hey, it’s me,_ ” Charlie said at the other end. “ _Sam said you didn’t come home last night. Are you all right?_ ”

Dean breathed out something that might have been a nervous laugh. “Yeah.” He gazed at Castiel, watching those blue eyes fill with bright light as the streetcar rocked on its tracks, letting Castiel’s face dart into the sun. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“ _Guess you didn’t feed the cats then. Good thing Sam checked in on them._ ” She blew a puff of air down the line. “ _Are you going to tell me where you were?_ ”

“Friend’s house,” Dean said, lightly. Charlie would already know, maybe she wouldn’t. But what Dean and Castiel shared was, until further notice, a secret to everyone.

“ _Uh... huh. Okay, so, when will you be here? Cupid’s Bow was meant to open now._ ”

Dean pursed his lips, glancing towards the road they still had to travel. The traffic was only moderate, since it was Saturday morning. “Five minutes,” Dean guessed.

Charlie sighed. “ _I’ll open shop for you if you want. I’m already at work._ ”

“Thanks. I need to get changed anyway,” Dean said, smirking at Castiel as Castiel smirked at him.

“ _As you wish._ ”

Charlie hung up without a goodbye, and Dean stuck the phone back into his pocket. Charlie was never one for official goodbyes, and that was one reason of many that Dean liked her.

At the end of their journey, Castiel paid the conductor, and held Dean’s hand as they leapt onto the sidewalk together. Dean groaned as he leaned over his knees - it may have been easy getting on, but getting off again was unexpectedly harsh on his joints.

“Getting old,” he complained, as he creaked up the slope that led to his apartment. “Everything _hurts_.”

Castiel stayed at his side, head turned by the smell of roasting coffee from the café opposite Cupid’s Bow. “Dean, would you like coffee?”

Dean scruffed his hair back, rolling his shoulders. “I’m buying. You keep feeding me, I gotta give you something back.”

Castiel took Dean’s hand outside the flower shop, stopping him.

They stood on the flattest part of the lane, where buckets of flowers were usually displayed. Dean looked Castiel in the eye, once Castiel finally looked up from his hands. “You don’t owe me anything, Dean,” Castiel said, heartfelt and sober. “Let me buy you coffee this morning.”

Dean’s spine shot with ribbons of delight as Castiel’s fingertips grazed the centre of his palm, skimming the dip. Dean’s lips parted, seeing the sunshine on his own eyelashes and glasses frames, all of him fluttering under Castiel’s touch, his gaze. It was marvellous, what Castiel made him feel; a magical feeling.

“‘kay,” Dean said, trying to smile but never managing it. He was too stunned.

Castiel turned away with a nod, and when Dean at last broke his gaze away from Castiel’s wide shoulders, he let himself into the lower door of the apartment. It was unlocked, and he bounced up the stairs, hearing his footfalls make the whole surrounding building ricochet with the sound. Charlie would be able to hear him coming home from her seat in the shop below.

Dean made a beeline for his bedroom, took his glasses off and threw his paint-splotched clothes to the floor, sneezing once, twice, three times before he turned around to swear accusingly at Lucifer. The dratted creature was watching him undress.

With intent to mentally scar the animal, Dean offered a reverse-striptease, wriggling into a clean pair of blue jeans, followed by a seductive slide of his belt through the loops. Lucifer stared at him, yellow eyes almost glowing in the rare rebounding sunlight which shone through the top window.

Only when he was doing up his belt did Dean realise he’d left his strappy black lingerie at Castiel’s apartment.

He paused for a moment, gaping at the floor. He’d been so _comfortable_. He’d felt confident enough in Castiel’s presence this morning that he hadn’t remembered to pick up the one thing that was essentially his security blanket.

That fact astounded him. Made him curl his toes, a fidgety excitement stirring in quiet places.

The moment one of the kittens woke up, blinking at him, Dean turned his back and stared at the wall, putting on his shirt as fast and unsexily as possible. Babies were babies, no matter their species.

He went to wash his hands, soaping away the ickiness of the tram pole. Feeling better afterwards, Dean hurried for the stairs as he put his glasses back on, offering a wave to Sam as he poked his head out of his bedroom.

“Where were you last night―?”

“Nowhere. Hey, Sammy, you want coffee?”

“Are you making it?”

“No, Cas is buying,” Dean grinned, hand pausing on the door handle, waiting to leave. “Coffee, yes or no?”

“Soy latte. And an iced bun, if they’re stocked,” Sam said, before retreating back into his room. “Nice to see you looking so chirpy.” He shut the door.

Dean stayed for a few moments longer, concerned that he saw the dark patches under Sam’s eyes, even from the other end of the hall. Law study was a hard task, even for someone as tough as Sammy.

Dean sighed, regretting for the first time not being home last night. Sure, Dean had had a whole bunch of his own problems to deal with, but he felt better now, and he should have been using that so-called ‘chirpiness’ for Sam’s sake. When he closed his eyes, he no longer saw the label of a good Old Number Seven, but the pale fingernails of Castiel’s lightly-tanned, careful hands.

It occurred to Dean, as he shut the door to the stairs and crossed the lane towards the coffee shop, that he had _needed_ last night in order to feel better now, in order to see the strain Sam was under. Dean had been lost, this past week.

Huh. He probably had Castiel to thank for the change in perspective.

The coffee shop door clattered as it closed behind him, and Dean strode into the patient shadows, heading for Castiel as he handed a credit card over the desk. There were a few other patrons, sitting outside at the silver tables, but nobody was inside besides the two of them and one barista.

“One medium soy latte, in addition,” Dean said, hands flat to the counter, raising his voice so the barista heard him over the grinding sound of the coffee-grinding machine. The scrawny teenager checked with Castiel with a look, and when Castiel nodded, the boy began to make the order.

“For Sam,” Dean said, glancing to Castiel. “I’ll cover it.”

“No need,” Castiel said, putting his hand over Dean’s before Dean could go for his pocket.

“But―”

“Dean,” Castiel said, smiling. He didn’t offer any reasoning at all, just kept looking at Dean until Dean chuckled, shaking his head as his chin dropped to his chest.

“You can’t give me everything, Cas.”

“I can try.”

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the coffee cup that that barista set on the end platform. He looked at the name written on it. “‘Angel’?!”

Castiel didn’t seem affected by Dean’s startled tone. Instead, he nodded, and began to explain. “Angels are warriors. Guides.” He glanced away, then back, a new smile on his face. “They’re carers. I love angels, I always have.”

Dean fiddled with the cup rather than drinking it. “That’s... that’s how you see me?”

Castiel inclined his head, blinking once, slowly. “Angels are terrifying, as they should be. Powerful and almighty. But sometimes when one falls...”

He tilted his head, eyes set on Dean.

Dean couldn’t believe how much he’d been given, seeing Castiel before him. It was like he was _made_ for Dean. He’d read his mind, he knew he had _fallen_ here - and he had filled every part in his life where Dean had a gap, a hollow. The darkness that filled those hollows had been pushed away in a single night, and with the first sip of coffee Dean took, Dean _knew_.

Castiel had placed the order for Dean’s coffee without asking what he wanted. And while it was just plain black, a spot of milk, a serving of sugar - a common order, perhaps - it was exactly how Dean drank his coffee.

Dean was going to marry this man.

Breathless, Dean told the barista to add two iced buns to the order. His voice shook, he heard it, but Castiel didn’t ask why.

With the pastries in a brown bag, Dean wandered for the exit, leaving Castiel to pay for the extras. Dean’s mind was addled by him, in the same way that he provided a clarity purer than anything in creation.

Castiel offered Dean chances he thought he didn’t ever deserve. Castiel made things _right_. Castiel gave, and gave, and gave.

The only other people Dean had who did that to the same extent were Sam, Sarah, Charlie, and Benny. Dean’s closest family.

“I’ve got to get to work in a minute,” Dean muttered, as Castiel joined him in the narrow brick street. He drank some more coffee, then turned his eyes down in regret that this moment couldn’t last.

In Castiel’s hand was a cardboard container with three coffee orders, one of which he wriggled into his hand to sip at. Dean saw the name on the side, and smiled. _Cas_.

They sat together at a silver table, the sun’s glare reflecting off the crescent edge.

“Oh―” Castiel noticed Dean’s questioning glance to the extra cup, and he raised the cardboard carrier towards Dean. “These are for Sam and Charlie,” he said. “You told me Charlie was doing your job while I made you late, so I thought I should thank her.”

Dean smiled awkwardly; he was starting to realise he’d gotten into the habit of letting other people do things for him.

That had to stop - even though it made him feel good inside, like people actually cared about him for once. He’d always been self-sufficient, and while San Francisco had changed him, he truly wondered if it was for the better. If the ache in his knees was anything to go by, he was getting soft.

Dean inhaled sharply, almost burning his tongue on his coffee. His only thought was that his father would have hated to see what Dean had become now. He wasn’t the same person any more.

Castiel saw how Dean’s expression curdled, but Dean couldn’t yet explain himself, he was still thinking it out.

Not being the same person any more was a good thing. A _good thing_.

He wasn’t a murderer, even though the blood was still on his hands; no amount of washing would ever help him be rid of that. The use of a handgun had kept any actual contact with blood away from him, and none of the brothers touched the body afterwards, yet Dean sometimes still saw the shape of how the man fell, like a chalk outline in a movie. He should’ve handled the situation differently. But it could not be changed now. He’d taken too much; a life was too much, no matter how bad the person it had belonged to.

He wasn’t a thief any more. To be perfectly reasonable, he never was. He didn’t like to take what wasn’t his, unlike his father.

And he wasn’t _tough_ any more. Not in the same way, at least. He didn’t hide what he felt, not like he used to. He no longer pretended that girls were the only people he enjoyed having between his sheets, nor that he didn’t cry sometimes at sad movies. It had been a gradual decommission of his rock-solid exterior, and - Dean smiled as he turned his coffee cup with his fingers - Sarah had helped.

Flushing his dependence on drugs out of his system had changed him. In that time, after becoming reliant on Sam and Sarah for a while, then learning how to pull away, he’d _changed_.

It wasn’t _softness_ that he was living now. The flowers, the love he harboured for the man sitting patiently opposite him, the family he’d built, the nice apartment, the hopes and dreams of someday having a real home... that was what happened to angels when they fell. He was simply grasping at the few things in life that were beautiful to him, finding beauty in a vision he had so far thought of as nothing but bloody and smeared with dirt and wrongdoing.

He looked up at Castiel and smiled, feeling something bloom inside him, a springtime blossom on an old tree, coming into its full glory after a lifetime of winter.

“Thank you,” Dean said.

He didn’t know if Castiel really understood, but he nodded at Dean anyway. “You’re welcome.”

✿

Dean took his leave once he saw customers approaching the flower shop, and Castiel didn’t follow, since Dean’s place of work was not _his_ place. He had his own work to do.

As he saw Charlie leaving Cupid’s Bow with the two coffee cups and paper bag of buns Dean had just handed her, Castiel stood up to meet her. But Charlie turned off up the stairs, closing the white door as she went. Castiel sat down again.

People were heading towards the centre city, a slow swarm of bodies passing Castiel by throughout the whole time he sat outside the cafe. He waited a few minutes, finishing his own coffee. The last dregs were his favourite, as the temperature was just right, and the weight of liquid-to-cup was just right, and it slid through the tiny opening of the plastic lid and over his tongue. Delicately milky, perfect.

Charlie re-entered the street, and Castiel left his empty cup where it was on the table, heading for Charlie. Castiel had no idea where she was going, but he only had five seconds to wait: she turned into the shop right beside Cupid’s Bow.

Castiel looked up, seeing the swinging wooden sign that hung over the street.

**P. Lush Plushies**   
_Est. 2000_

Castiel looked both ways before crossing the lane, just to make sure he wouldn’t bump into any passing pedestrians. Once outside the shop, he observed the front of it the same way he once observed Cupid’s Bow.

He took in the polished window, the edges fluffed with moss, the corners not quite cleaned in order to leave the plants growing undisturbed. Peering at him through the glass were numerous teddy bears, glass eyes and stitched smiles.

He smiled back. They seemed friendly.

The door in this shop buzzed rather than dinged, since the weight his foot put onto the doormat triggered a sensor.

“Be with you in a moment!” came Charlie’s cry from the back of the small store, her voice muffled by the sheer amount of fabric in the shop.

This place was brown; brown walls, brown ceiling. Warm, scented like wood and cloth fibres. The overhead light was subdued orange, spotlighted, but the sun cast a blaze across the shelves by the windows.

The walls were lined with shelves too, and the shelves were layered with plush animals, the colours of their bodies as variant as they were similar. Teddies were much the same no matter which kind of fur or which shade of plaid they were stitched out of, and even though some were massive, and some were miniature, they all offered an equal sense of comfort.

Castiel stood amongst double-tiered tables in the centre of the shop, feeling strangely nostalgic.

He once had a teddy bear. He couldn’t remember what happened to it, and even though he only remembered its existence at this very moment, he also realised that he still loved it.

Solomon. He remembered its name. He smiled, feeling sad and happy at once.

“Ah,” Charlie said, breaking a crackle in the hanging beads that separated the shop from a back room. “Oh, hey, Cas,” she said, grinning. “Long time no see.”

Castiel squinted. “I saw you last night.”

Charlie laughed, swaying between the tables, fingers plucking at her shirt to straighten it after having removed her hoodie in the back room. “Well, it’s good to see you again today. Oh, thanks for the coffee, by the way. I left it back there, not wanting to be rude to customers and all. What can I do you for?”

Castiel supposed he should buy something, since he was here. He could technically be a customer.

“So this is where you work,” he said, not really answering Charlie’s question.

“Mm-hm.” Charlie beamed as Castiel turned towards the nearest shelf, entering a staring competition with a fluffy narwhal. “Benny owns this place too.”

“Yes, I know,” Castiel said, nodding. “He and I have discussed this area at great length.”

“This whole area?”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at Charlie. “Yes. He means to develop everything here.”

Charlie harrumphed. “ _I_ know. I talked his ear off about it a few weeks ago. He’s been harping on about changing things, making things, but he’s always busy with his sheriffing duties. And his daughter. You wouldn’t imagine he’d have time to _develop_ places.”

Castiel shrugged, dipping his hands into his pockets as he browsed another shelf, seeing plush versions of almost every animal on the planet.

“He told me that’s why you moved away,” Castiel said, head down as he played with the paw of a lion. “You didn’t like his idea.”

Charlie perched on the edge of a table, folding her arms and fiddling with the end of her red hair. Castiel watched her until she answered, shrugging. “I think this whole place is great, you know? Sure, the glass wall in the apartment upstairs is going to shatter if there’s ever a big earthquake, and the heat escapes constantly, but that’s what the wood burner’s for.”

“Which is technically a fire hazard,” Castiel added.

Charlie blew a raspberry. “We don’t leave it burning if we’re all out.”

Castiel turned to the bean-filled frogs that were stacked in a heap of twenty in the corner of a table, their legs merging with the stack of bean-filled fish.

“Dean’s job,” Charlie started. Castiel set his full attention on her so she could speak. “It wasn’t meant to last. It was just a one-time thing, that turned into a hobby, turned into a full-time career for Dean. The shop doesn’t make nearly as much as it needs to; Dean working there is all that keeps it going.”

Castiel frowned, looking at Charlie’s honest expression with confusion.

Charlie glanced away and explained. “Nobody comes down here. Look at this place now,” she said, gesturing at the shop they sat in. “It’s cosy, and it does good at Christmastime, but it’s eight-thirty in the morning, and you’re the first person in here. I open early so people might duck in as they go to work, but it’s rare. And yet, it’s more profitable to do that than to lose a single customer.”

She shrugged, lips pressed together. “I can literally just walk over and look after Dean’s shop for two hours, and no harm comes to anything.” What she was saying upset her, made her restless.

Castiel stroked the back of a woollen alpaca, wishing its softness were something he could turn into an emotional manifestation. It comforted his fingers, but not his heart.

“Dean’s business is going down the crapper,” Charlie summarised. “And so is mine. So is Chuck’s bookshop down the street. And the coffeehouse, with whose produce you so gracefully provided me with this morning.” Charlie pulled a sideways smile, a facial shrug. “We’re not a Starbucks or a Borders or a Toys-R-Us, so nobody cares. People use the street to hop between residential and urban, don’t even notice us.”

“But the flowers, people always want flowers,” Castiel said, cuddling the alpaca without really noticing. “Weddings, funerals?”

“Dean catered _one_ wedding since being here. And that was Sam and Sarah’s, and it was pretty much done out of pity, since they never got a proper ceremony, and Dean was practically begging to use his newfound skillset.”

Charlie heaved a deep sigh, mouth closed, eyes almost shut. “Yeah, people want our stuff, but it’s not mainstream, and not even the hipsters bother coming so far out of the way.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what ‘hipsters’ meant, but he nodded. “I too disagree with Benny. This part of the city should be preserved.”

“Chuh,” Charlie laughed, mirthlessly. “What good is preserving something, when all it’s doing is exactly that? We’re breaking even, and nothing more. We’re preserved. Like... pickles. In a jar. With vinegar.”

Castiel didn’t really want to put the alpaca down.

Charlie slid away from the table she was leaning on, rearranging how the giraffe she perched next to was standing. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, resigned. “I like working here. It technically pays the bills, since I’m the only person that works here, and Benny keeps our rent low, so I keep a lot of the profits... but this place is my baby, and my baby is... under the weather.”

Castiel touched his hand to Charlie’s arm, and she didn’t turn to look at him, just sighed. “Wanna know a secret?”

Castiel nodded. “Okay.”

Charlie turned around, smiling again, somewhere between proud and distraught, which was a strange combination. “The only reason this place is still afloat is because I run an action figure business online. I sell plastic toys. The same stuff available from all the other stores.” She sneered. “Feels dirty, don’t it.”

Castiel shrugged. “Does it?”

Charlie swept away, then turned back, staring Castiel in the eye. “I love figurines, though. Popular culture and children’s toys and toys technically made for children but―” she gestured at Castiel’s alpaca, “ones adults love too. But they’re a dying breed. Handmade. _Hand_ made toys, made locally, not somewhere nameless in China.”

She picked up a shiny cloth snake, which rattled with beads from inside. Draping it around her neck, she stroked its head, finger running its pink lolling tongue, flicking the split tip. “These cuties are original, some unique. I try putting these online, but toys like these, it hurts to see them go to collectors. I admit, I’m... I’m a collector too, I wanna _preserve_. But toys gotta be played with.”

“You don’t have children,” Castiel discerned.

“Nope,” Charlie said. “And if Benny turns this block into something other than what it is now, all that long-term preservation is wasted. It’s human history. The last of buy-by-hands-on-browsing. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to see the world turn into the digital one-stop-shopping strip malls the movies make the future out to be. Sure seems like we’re headed that way.”

Castiel understood. He nodded, stroking his alpaca’s soft little head.

“I wish I could help you,” he said.

Charlie shot him a grateful smile, then ducked into the back room, returning with her coffee. She took a sip, quietly mumbled that it wasn’t hot any more, but kept drinking it.

Charlie didn’t know Castiel was already on his way to fixing everything for her. He didn’t quite know what to do yet, but his intention was there, and Benny was on board. It was just a case of moving forward. Not pickling plans, but smashing them out of their glass jars.

With a sigh and a final decision to keep the alpaca, Castiel moved towards the furthest shelf, on the other side of the shop.

He dared not look too closely at any of the teddy bears, in case one of them decided to latch onto him the same way his alpaca had. He’d already grown fond of the thing, and didn’t want to become emotionally attached to any more things that were so destructible, as easy to lose as Solomon had been.

It was crazy how a person could love a cloth animal so much. Castiel had never had to _try_ to love Solomon, it just happened. Like with Dean.

At the bottom of the furthest shelf, he found something he was not expecting to find.

A forlorn-looking tiger sat forgotten beside a much larger and clearly newer tiger, but the damaged one was the one that caught Castiel’s eye. He pulled it into his hand, and its limbs and head drooped under their own weight.

“Charlie,” Castiel called, suddenly feeling strange saying her name. “Where did this tiger come from?”

Charlie approached, downing the last of her coffee like it was a tequila shot, the lid already removed. Licking a milk moustache from her upper lip, she took a peek at what Castiel held.

“Oh, one of my suppliers,” she said. She poked a finger to indicate the tiger. “That little tyke’s been here for years. I say hi to him every once in a while, but he’s quiet. He likes the dark shadowy parts of the shop where nobody can find him.”

Castiel looked from Charlie to the tiger, seeing the white beard around its face that real tigers had. “How do you know what he wants?”

Charlie smile rose slowly, then all at once. She petted the tiger on the head, grasped Castiel’s wrist, and squeezed him reassuringly. “Some people talk to the dead. Some people read minds. I listen to what the beanie animals tell me.”

Castiel blinked. “Really?”

Charlie laughed and walked away, and Castiel doubted he would ever know how much of what she said was a joke. People seemed to think he was joking a lot, too, when he was perfectly serious.

Dean didn’t. Dean answered his stupid questions.

Castiel loved Dean.

And Dean would love this tiger, lopsided button eyes and all.

“Charlie, I would like to purchase these two,” Castiel said, making for the counter at the back of the shop, where the sun barely reached, and the spotlights from above made the dappled-cream marble counter shine in three separate places.

He put the animals on the counter, and moved his hand for his wallet.

“Forty for the llama, aaand... twenty-five for the tiger, shall we say. He’s a bit raggy.” Charlie picked at the tiger, tugging at each small leg, lifting and setting them down again carefully.

“He didn’t want to leave here for such a long time, I think he was afraid of the same thing as I was,” she muttered, finally pulling her hand away to access the till. “Scared that nobody would love him forever. I certainly wouldn’t be able to, since he had to be sold _one_ day.”

“That’s why you hid him from customers?”

Charlie took Castiel’s credit card, the one without a name printed on its side. “Yeah.” She kept staring at the tiger as she swiped the card. “Yeah, I didn’t think he would go to the right home. But,” she said, handing the credit card back with a much brighter smile, “You found him, which means you were looking in the right place.”

“He’s not for me, though,” Castiel said, allowing Charlie to place both plush animals into a stiff brown paper bag. “He’s for Dean.”

Charlie smiled widely, her teeth showing. It was a radiant and catching smile, and Castiel tilted his head, pleased to cheer her up so easily.

“He’s perfect for Dean,” Charlie said, sliding the bag across the marble counter with a gentle push. “I can’t wait to tease him about it.”

Castiel smiled warmly, pleased at the satisfying weight of the bag. The tiger was heavier than the alpaca, despite being half the size. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“You’re welcome. And also, here,” she said, flicking a business card up between her fingers. “Website’s on there. Feel free to tell people about this place, we could do with promotion. Advertising only does so much. Word-of-mouth is more effective.”

Castiel nodded, shifting towards the front door.

“Cas - Emanuel, wait, one question.”

Castiel met her eye as she stood before him. She took a breath, then asked, “Was Dean with you last night? All night?”

Castiel’s smile lifted uncontrollably, and he lowered his gaze, knowing his answer had already been given.

Charlie made a soft sound of understanding. “It’s a secret, isn’t it?”

“Very much so.”

Charlie sighed. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re both idiots, but you’re okay.”

Castiel barely met her eye before resuming his walk to the exit. “Have a good day, Charlie.”

“You too. See you around sometime.”

The door buzzed on his way out, and Castiel began to hurry. He was late for a meeting.

✿

Dean sucked chocolate sauce off his thumb, focusing more on its thick consistency than on whoever was knocking to be let in. Everyone who lived here knew the top door was always unlocked.

He glanced back to the kitchen to check nothing would boil over if he was distracted for a moment, and then he went to open the door.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean grinned, surprised. “Heya, Cas. What’s the occasion? You gonna stay for dinner? I made black forest gateau.”

Castiel certainly looked tempted. He stepped inside as Dean opened the door further to let him in. Dean glanced down at the brown bag that swung from his hand, and Dean recognised it as one from Charlie’s shop.

“What’s in there?”

Castiel lifted the bag, then paused, glanced around. He saw nobody else, since Sam was in his room and Dean was the only other one home for the evening, at least until Sarah and Gabriel got back.

Satisfied with their privacy, Castiel tipped the bag, putting his hand inside. “You left this at my apartment,” he said, shaking out the black lace and strappy lines that made up one of Dean’s favourite items of lingerie.

Dean snatched it, eyes down.

“I... I didn’t wash it,” Castiel muttered. “I thought, maybe―”

“Yeah, no.” Dean nodded hastily. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s good if I do it. I like doing it.”

Castiel gave a small, quiet smile. Dean smiled back, tucking the garment into his front pocket until it bulged, but would not show obviously to anyone passing by.

“And there’s something else,” Castiel said, tipping the bag upside down completely. Something pattered into his hand, orange and striped with black, a white frill around one end. Castiel let the bag fall to the floorboards, and he held the orange thing in both hands, so its cloth face looked up at Dean.

It had button eyes, and it was making the same face at him that the kittens made at Lucifer.

Dean tentatively reached a hand forward, fingering at one soft rounded ear. “What is this?”

“It’s a tiger, Dean.”

Dean scoffed. “I know that, Cas. Why are you showing me?”

Castiel offered it forward, and Dean barely thought before taking it. “He’s for you,” Castiel said. “I - I don’t know, I’m not sure why I got him, I just saw him and I thought...”

“He’s awesome,” Dean said, unexpectedly attached to him already. Unexpectedly having already assigned it a gender pronoun. Unexpectedly warm in his tummy, a feeling unrelated to the chocolate sauce he’d been sampling. “He’s kinda lopsided.”

Castiel chuckled, his body close enough to Dean’s that he could smell the traffic Castiel had walked through over the day. His antiperspirant was long gone, but he still remained as clean as he was that morning. “He reminded me of you.”

“You saying I’m lopsided? What, do my eyes not match or somethin’?”

Castiel laughed, shaking his head, resting his forehead against Dean’s cheek. “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he whispered, breath making Dean’s stubble tingle. “He’s a fierce creature. Old and battered, but still... Still loveable.”

Dean was _not_ blushing.

“Gee... Cas...” Dean started, speaking slowly because he didn’t yet know what to say. He was flattered, of course he was - it was an accurate description of him, if anything. But words were not something he could scrounge up right now.

Speechless. That’s what he was.

Castiel’s pocket began to vibrate, and they both jumped. Castiel patted down his sides until he found his phone, and Dean went back to the kitchen quickly to stop a pot rattling. He took his tiger with him, holding his floppy little body in one hand.

“Hello?” Castiel said, voice distant as he spoke at the other side of the room, still by the door. “Oh, hello.”

Dean heard silence for a while, and in that time, he needed his hands, so put the tiger on his shoulder so he could see what Dean was doing.

“No, I’m not at home right now,” Castiel continued. Dean could hear that his face was turned towards Dean, but he was keeping his voice down, since the conversation wasn’t for Dean.

Dean glanced at his tiger rather than Castiel. “What d’ya wanna bet?” he asked it. “Daphne or his dad?”

The tiger kept on staring at the pot Dean stirred. Dean only looked at what he was doing when something bubbled and spat on his hand. It was his own fault for being rather occupied by the way the tiger seemed _interested_.

While Dean was still sucking too-hot chocolate sauce off the back of his hand, Castiel appeared at his side. Dean jumped, grasping at his tiger so the floppy creature wouldn’t fall into the sauce. “Christ, Cas, warn a guy before sneaking up on him.”

Castiel’s smile was somewhere between innocent and smug. He put the phone back to his ear, and said, “Yes.... yes, it’s Dean, I was just bringing him something.”

Ah. So it was most likely Daphne at the other end.

Castiel’s eyes dipped lower, away from Dean and towards the chocolate sauce. He frowned, and while Daphne was babbling into his ear, he reached forwards and turned the heat down on the cooker. Dean watched the simmering brown surface cover over with a quiet glaze, settling.

Castiel mouthed at Dean, “ _It’s done now._ ”

Dean nodded, squeezing his tiger in his hand as Castiel turned away, talking to Daphne again, “Yes. No, sorry, I... I zoned out for a moment, I’m here.”

Dean realised as Castiel was halfway to the door again that he wasn’t going to stay for dinner. Putting the tiger down on the bar, Dean hurried forward, arm stretched out to touch Castiel’s elbow as he put his hand on the door handle.

“Oh― Oh, hang on a minute, Daphne...”

Castiel lowered the cellphone to his heart, pressing the receiver to his shirt so Daphne’s end would be muffled. Castiel looked at Dean with his lips slightly parted, eyes peaceful, but Dean could see an unspoken apology in his expression.

Dean’s brain said ‘ _fuck it_ ’, and he set a gentle hand around Castiel’s head, then set his lips against Castiel’s. More of a shared breath than a kiss, but a touch nonetheless. Castiel sighed ever so softly, and nodded as he pulled away.

“See you, Cas,” Dean whispered, resisting the urge to _smush_ his mouth against Castiel’s. If he could resist for all those weeks gone by, then he could sure as hell resist it now.

Castiel nodded again, then removed himself from the apartment. Dean shut the door behind him, slowly, quietly. He rested his hands on the back of it once it clicked, wishing he could pull Castiel back. Cas disappeared on him too much, and he hated it.

✿

“I’m back,” Castiel said into the speaker, as soon as he cleared the stairwell. He stepped into the evening street, shoes sloping on the lane. He closed the door quietly, then began to walk down towards the main road.

“ _As I was saying... Oh, are you outside now?_ ”

Castiel realised she must be able to hear the traffic. “I am. I’m on my way home.”

“ _I was only wondering if you wanted to have dinner tonight,_ ” Daphne said. “ _Juliette’s at a friend’s house. The place would be all ours, I rented some movies..._ ”

Castiel sucked on his tongue. “I’m almost home, actually.” The lie felt bitter; he was no more than five minutes’ walk from Daphne’s house. “I was just planning on... I don’t know. Something quiet.”

“ _It can be quiet here, too._ ”

Castiel didn’t know why he forced a smile, maybe it was guilt, an underlying worry that Daphne could see him now, walking away from everything. “I’m not a particularly social person. I saw you at the office.”

“ _Twice in one day is too much for you, huh?_ ” Daphne said, chuckling.

Her statement was true, but not when it came to Dean. He could see Dean all day, every day, and never feel exhausted by him like he was after being around other people.

In fact, Castiel was in a complete mind to avoid Daphne tonight so he could return to Dean. Dean had asked first, after all - but that was a small, small part of why Castiel wanted to spent his evening with him. Chocolate sauce that, on Dean’s lips, tasted like it came from a fountain on Mount Olympus, was another small part of that.

But Castiel didn’t even have to say a word to Daphne, nor apologise. She sighed with a smile, then laughed. “ _It’s okay, hon. You go home and put your feet up. I’ll see you tomorrow anyway, we have another wave of nuisance lawsuits to deal with. They keep working their way up the chain, they’re meant to have been dealt with already._ ”

Castiel swallowed, nodding. “Tomorrow, then; that sounds fair.”

“ _Okay. Bye-bye, hon!_ ”

The call ended, and Castiel put his phone back into his pocket.

The toe of his shoe nudged at an empty food packet that drifted along the sidewalk. It circled in an eddy of hot air pushed up by passing cars, and he watched it float away like a fish on a hook.

Castiel’s evening was now clear of events, and oh, what he wouldn’t give to spend his time with Dean. But he was already walking away, already striding into the pink haze of the city, the sinking sun at his back.

He was guilty of crimes that, while no law would commit him for them, made his soul crumble inside. That _guilt_ was as real as four walls and an iron railing across his window. He was trapped between two worlds. He loved one and wanted to escape the other, but he had a moral compass, and its arrow was spinning between poles.

If he went home, he didn’t have to deal with it.

So he went home.

✿

The following day, Dean never his thought said aloud, but he thought it many times over: he missed Castiel.

He missed him when he saw something blue, or something trenchcoat-tan, missed him when he patched into satellite TV for ten minutes to watch the end of an episode of _The X-Files_ he hadn’t seen in years. He missed him because he also missed his flower shop, missed him because it was Sunday. Missed him because his hands went empty for a lot of the day, and not even fussing over Sam or throwing things at Gabriel was very therapeutic.

Gabriel, for that matter, was very gleefully enthusiastic about snatching Dean’s tiger and running away with it. Dean tried not to get upset - honestly, he was thirty-five, not four - but Gabriel putting his hands on something already precious to him made him grumpy. And not only that, he wanted the damn tiger _back_.

“ _Give_ me it, Gabriel!”

“Nah-uhh,” Gabriel sang, lolloping over the couch with his bare feet, leaving dents in Dean’s unrolled bedding, including his pillow. Dean made a mental note to wash his pillowcase later. Gabriel chortled, wiggling the tiger as Dean lunged for him. “Aww, wookit his widdle fayce.”

Gabriel leapt off the couch and scurried around the apartment, making Dean madder, and more inclined to throw a punch.

It wasn’t all about the tiger. Gabriel was just an asshole who aged three decades after childhood and got taller. He was a nice guy - as Dean tried to remind himself - but that whole _asshole_ part of him was sometimes very hard to ignore.

With a roar, Dean tackled Gabriel to the floorboards, resorting to grabby hands and tickling to get Gabriel’s grip to loosen. “If one of his button eyes is missing, I swear to God...”

“Ahh - ha ha! - it’s a _he_?”

Dean kneed Gabriel in the stomach, retrieved his tiger, and stood up, pretending he wasn’t out of breath. “So what? Cars and boats get to be girls, so he’s a he.”

Dean turned away, clutching his tiger so protectively in his hands that even _he_ wondered how healthy it was to be like this. It was just a rag with some stuffing, awkward black buttons and white lace, it wasn’t actually a life. It wasn’t important like Dean’s father’s gun was, nor his car. But as an object, Dean _loved_ his tiger. He hated to admit it to himself, he really did. The thought of feeling like that made him want to break something.

“I bet you named it, didn’t you,” Gabriel said, bouncing in front of Dean, making Dean turn away so the bastard couldn’t snatch it. “Or did your boyfriend name it for you?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Dean yelled, shoving Gabriel in the throat so he backed away. “It’s none of your beeswax, get out of - Christ - get out of my way!”

Sam entered the room, a pen still in his hand. “What is _wrong_ with you two? I told you I needed two hours, and it’s been literally ten minutes and you’re _shouting_.”

“Gabriel stole my tiger!”

“Dean _named_ it! C’mon, boy, what is it?” Gabriel jittered around, wild eyes on Dean with a disgusting amount of interest. “Hobbes, did you call it Hobbes? Pie! Batman? Richard Parker! Come on, give me something!”

Dean sat in the corner of the couch, feet in the air to defend himself with kicks if Gabriel got any closer. “None of your fucking business.”

Gabriel’s eyes opened a little wider. “Oh my god, you actually _have_ named it. I was kidding, and now you―”

Dean’s nostrils flared, and he looked over at Sam imploringly. “Sammy, I want a divorce. Your dog is horrible.”

Gabriel barked at him.

✿

It took until the evening before things calmed down. Dean had to hide his tiger in a cake tin in the kitchen, until he realised Gabriel probably thought there was cake in there and might attempt to eat its contents without looking at it first. So, the tiger found his solace in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, hidden behind shaving gel and lube (which Dean told the tiger very clearly was _not his_ ; the tiger could probably see his lies, but Dean held his ground.)

Eventually, Dean sat down in his bedroom and cradled his little baby, unable to help the wobbly smile stuck on his lips - a direct result of the kitten chewing on his thumb.

Sarah was busy feeding Lucifer down on the carpet, and Dean wrinkled his nose at the smell of cat food. If it didn’t remind him of skin rashes and runny noses, the dry kibble might even smell appetising to him.

Sam sighed as he came into Dean’s bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him, so any noise from outside wouldn’t startle the kittens. They were only eight days old, eyes still shut, and they could barely hear anything, but they responded to vibrations and shouts, so Dean felt a little bad for earlier. He just hoped Gabriel felt worse.

Dean turned away from the kitten he’d named Honeybee; he sneezed, killing a good few brain cells. He wiped his nose on his jeans, then shuffled closer to the foot of his bed again.

These miniature terrors made him feel like he was dying, but sometimes he couldn’t stay away. They smelled warm and cuddly, and even when they smelled like their own piddle, it was somewhat relaxing to sit and watch Lucifer lick them clean.

Now, Lucifer leapt back onto the bed, stalking back to her babies and rounding them up. They tended to wander off when she wasn’t near, squeaking what was probably, “ _Mommy, Mommy!_ ”

Dean wasn’t _going soft_ , no way. He was just... nesting. He liked this warm cuddly feeling that surrounded his life right now.

He put his tiger down beside the kittens, wondering what they would think if they could see. Lucifer had perfectly good eyesight, and she didn’t like the tiger. She hissed.

Dean smirked and pulled the tiger away so Lucifer couldn’t scratch him. “You’re just jealous because I like Henry more than you,” he said to her.

“Henry?” Sam asked, kneeling beside Dean.

Dean pulled a halfway-apologetic face. “Yeah. Well, I was thinking about it all day. You think it suits him?” He showed the tiger to Sarah and Sam, and they peered at him, then at Dean.

“What?” Dean said, curling backwards under their close scrutiny.

“Cas gave you that?”

“Yeah, and?”

Sarah smiled, glancing to Sam, then back to Dean and Henry. “Cute.”

Dean fidgeted, thumbing at Henry’s lacy beard, balancing the pros and cons of asking the question on his tongue. “Wh... What’s cute? The fact Cas gave me a tiger, or Henry?”

Sarah’s face split into a wide, wide smile, and she almost giggled as she looked away, hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam restrained his snort, but the outward tug on his lips did not escape Dean’s notice.

“Look... Look, don’t laugh at me, okay,” Dean said, quietly, eyes turned downward to examine the cat hair on the carpet. “I never had stuff like this when I was growing up. _You_ know that.” He looked at Sam. “My childhood was pretty much nonexistent. Guns were toys. _Sam_ was my baby.”

Dean tried not to get emotional, and succeeded. At least on the outside. No watery eyes, no more than a single quiver of his lip. “So Cas gave me a plushie. So what? I like Cas, and I like Henry. For once I get to have something pointless. You know. Something I can...” he shrugged, “treasure.”

“And what about the amulet I gave you,” Sam said. “Does that not count?”

Dean looked up sharply. “Of course it counts. I don’t wear it ‘cause I... um... don’t want to... lose it.”

Sam’s tiny smile burst into a laugh, and he shook his head. “Dean, it’s in the drawer of my nightstand. I was wondering how long it would take you to―”

“Fuck! You had it this whole time and you didn’t _say_ anything?!”

Sam laughed again, quietening when Sarah shushed him, in case he scared the cats. “It’s a nice thought, _not_ telling me you lost it back in Texas.”

Dean whined. “We were in a hurry! I don’t know if you noticed, but we were kind of stressed out―”

Sam put his giant hand over Dean’s hand, over his tiger. “Dean, it’s okay. Just shut up, all right?” Sam was still grinning, which made Dean smile. “I was just waiting for you to tell me. I’ll go get it in a minute.”

Dean nodded, sinking down onto his ass and crossing his legs. He sneezed twice more, squinching his knuckles against his eyelids to rub away the itch.

He felt good now. He’d had that loss hanging over his head for months, and dang, now he felt miles less like a careless douchebag. To be honest, when they’d moved around so often, Dean probably wasn’t anything _but_ a careless douchebag. It took San Francisco to make him care.

The only thing that would have made tonight more easygoing would have been the company of a certain other man, the man who knew exactly when to stop heating chocolate sauce so he could offer heated chocolate kisses instead. And maybe a hug from someone whose primary instinct was not to bite his fingertips and put claws in his palm, nor someone who was made of cloth.

Yeah. Dean missed Cas. But he didn’t say a thing out loud.


	17. Blossoming

Monday morning at four o’clock in the morning was a good a time as any to make house calls. Where was the fun in only seeing him in daylight, anyway?

Dean sat in the taxicab, listening to the guy complain at him from the driver’s compartment. It was _four in the morning_ , Dean was excused for forgetting to bring cash. He explained himself, then made a call from the back seat, and was thankful that the cabbie shut up for long enough for Dean to hear the phone ringing.

It rang for a long, long time.

“ _H’lu...o._ ”

Dean grinned, but it was more of a grimace. “Uh, hi, Cas.”

“ _Whut time’s it._ ”

Dean glanced at his wristwatch. “Four.”

Castiel was very quiet. For quite some time. “ _In the morning._ ”

Dean bit his lip. “I forgot to bring cash. You’re gonna hate me, but I’m right outside your building. Would you... would you mind coming down and...”

“ _And what._ ”

“Paying. For my cab.” Dean ran his hand over his face, almost smudging his glasses. His eyes tickled, but he ignored the sensation; they felt that way every Monday morning. “Look, would you just... Please?”

Castiel made an unimpressed sound into the phone. “ _Give me five minutes._ ”

Dean sat back in his seat, eyeing the cabbie nervously.

“Meter still running,” the driver said, accent as dull as the stupid dangly thing that swayed under the rear-view mirror.

Dean pursed his lips and waited.

Castiel eventually staggered out of the glass doors in bare feet and a spectacular bed-head, wearing a navy blue t-shirt and slept-in jeans, smeared with paint all over.

Dean beamed when he saw him, and popped open the back door. “Get in,” he called, and scooted over so Castiel could sit beside him.

Castiel flumped into the seat, his muscles floppy, weight held low. His eyes were squinting at everything, and his hands grasped his wallet, all thumbs as he tried to pull out some cash.

Dean carefully reached over Castiel’s lap and pulled the door closed again, shutting them in.

Castiel looked at him in classic confusion, and Dean winked, a light smile on his lips.

“Hit the gas,” Dean said to the driver.

The driver drove on.

“Dean.”

“Just shh,” Dean said, petting Castiel’s warm, rumpled knee. “Take a nap or something, we’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“We’ll be _where_? Where the fuck are you taking me?” Castiel’s eyes blinked open a little more, and he looked around at the dark streets, a rare car passing in the other direction. “Are you kidnapping me?”

Dean laughed, wriggling up to Castiel’s sides so he could cuddle him, cheek to his shoulder. “Only technically. I’m taking you to the flower market.”

“And you...” Castiel tucked his money back into his wallet. “You lied to me to get me out of bed.”

Dean kissed Castiel on the neck, whispering, “Hope you don’t mind.”

Castiel’s head lolled back against the seat, and he sighed, a slow arm reaching up to pull his safety belt across his chest. Dean took the hint and did up his own buckle, then returned to his place against Castiel’s side. He was so _cuddly_ when he was tired.

Okay, Cas wasn’t cuddly, he was grumpy. Dean was cuddly. But Dean wasn’t going to admit that, not to himself, nor anyone. Cas just didn’t fight him.

They drove - and as they drove, Dean cuddled. He nuzzled and he wriggled closer, pressing himself against Cas, almost crawling into his lap before the safety belt stopped him. He’d missed Cas like deserts missed rain, so having him near again was a veritable buffet for his hungry soul.

What made it better was that Castiel never stopped smiling.

Once they reached their destination, Dean paid the cab fee with money from his own wallet (which he _had_ brought, thank you very much).

The two of them walked hand-in-hand towards San Francisco's biggest flower market, where Dean was fully prepared to spend an hour or so buying wholesale: three days’ stock supply at Cupid’s Bow. He would be back here on Thursday morning, again looking ahead to the warehouse they approached now.

The night remained dark, but the horizon was bordering with blue, blending with the purple of the city sky. The scent in the air began to change; the smell of flowers mingled with the smell of engines and dust, and the temperature dropped.

Dean gave Castiel his leather jacket, but unfortunately he had to go without shoes, since he had brought none. Castiel didn’t seem all that bothered, however, especially once they entered the rolled-up garage door, and walked into the market.

Fluorescent lighting made the place bright, and showed off exactly how large this market was. Flowers of a thousand varieties lined all sides of the maze of aisles ahead, grouped colours set upon tables where sellers showed off their produce. Stray petals were trodden on by eager flower-buyers, random discarded flora bits scattered all across the grey concrete underfoot. Crowds were thin, but business was ripe.

This place would not be open to the public for another six hours, but Dean had his company badge handy, and once signed in, he had free rein to buy anything he needed.

He paid for Cas’ entry without Castiel’s knowledge; Cas didn’t need to know.

Here, flowers were packed into paper squares, separated by colour, by type, by price. The scent that filled this place was always as amazing as it was now. “Heaven-scent,” Dean muttered to Castiel out of the corner of his mouth, making him laugh.

Castiel had woken up properly by the time they walked the first length of the market, his toes curled inwards against the cold floor. He would reach his hands out to touch the flowers he passed, soft peonies and dahlias, cut eucalyptus fronds brustling between his fingers.

Dean held his hand whenever he wasn’t pushing his giant cart, but both of them were happy enough to wander apart.

Castiel would bring Dean his own selections, already paid for. Dean couldn’t exactly say no, not when he returned to his cart to find there was a set of superb saffron-yellow roses sitting comfortably beside the red. The blooms looked about as cheerful as Castiel did, if less tired.

In the past, Dean had often tried to make conversation with these sellers. They were all one big flowery family; the sellers and growers had been coming here for generations. He himself had been in the business for three months, and while people were welcoming to newcomers, he never felt like he was cut the same way. Everyone here was soft-spoken, gentle - he didn’t see himself like that.

He saw his hands pick up flowers and he saw claws and blood-soaked skeletons tearing into petals.

Castiel sensed it, though. Every time Dean’s breath caught, his eyes diverting away from a seller who didn’t much care for his newbie questions about exactly what was in season, Castiel would be at his back. Arms around his waist, a soft kiss pressed to the side of his head.

Dean would have been embarrassed by the public display - there were old people here, people with _sensibilities_ , not to mention the fact it was only dawn - but nobody noticed, or nobody cared. This was a flower market in San Francisco, after all. The people here loved love; they made their living out of it. Dean let Castiel hug him, and then let him move away once more.

Neither man said a word on the subject aloud, and until Castiel gave a cry of “Oh, Dean, look!”, Dean was very much focused on buying the flowers he needed.

Dean followed Castiel’s pulling hand, leaving his cart behind for a moment.

Castiel took him to where a plump middle-aged vendor sat, her grey hair curled into sweeps atop her head. Castiel gave her a bright four-thirty-a.m. smile, and she tentatively returned it.

“May I buy one?” he asked her, and Dean was about to complain, saying she would reject the request - this was _wholesale_ , to be bought in _bulk_ ―

Castiel stood and turned to Dean, offering him the single largest yellow sunflower that Dean had ever laid eyes on.

Dean gaped. And then he smiled, and he took the flower, feeling its bristly stem make his fingers itch. Its weight was significant, but the hugeness and splendor of its petals and face made it worth it. Dean stared at the flower, then at Castiel, half a grin on his face.

Castiel was giving him the soppiest smile ever. It was kind of gross.

Dean stood there, probably smiling with equal grossness, as Castiel dipped into his space and put a little kiss on the very tip of Dean’s nose.

Someone wolf-whistled, and a few other people clapped. Dean didn’t even look up, just ducked his head and pretended he wasn’t turning to total mush. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s head, and Dean laughed into his sternum, breathing in his painty, warm smell.

That sunflower got pride of place on the trolley, and Dean gave the seller a bashful smile as he and Castiel moved away. Dean was thankful she didn’t say no to Castiel, but he certainly didn’t have the courage to offer his thanks to her face. Tiger or not, he was one giant chicken.

Charlie picked them up in her battered yellow car when they were done, just before five-thirty in the morning. She did this twice a week, since Dean didn’t have a car.

Castiel knew why Dean didn’t have a car, but all he afforded Charlie was a smile. Dean appreciated the attempt at keeping Dean’s secrets, even though Charlie already knew it all.

They went home, casual banter passed between the front seats and the back. Charlie dropped Castiel back at his apartment first, and Cas hopped out of the back seat, leaving the flowers to spread into his space. He was still beaming.

“Wait!” Dean slammed his own car door and ran up onto the sidewalk, slinging his arms around Castiel’s waist, hands locked on his lower back. He sighed against Castiel’s shoulder, pressing a gigantic smile to his t-shirt.

Castiel chuckled, stroking the back of Dean’s neck. “Thank you for bringing me out this morning. It was fun. But... perhaps give me some warning next time, or at least tell me I should put shoes on.”

“Mm,” Dean said, hugging a little tighter. “Hey... Cas... Never ever ever tell Sammy or Gabe or anyone... how much I... um.”

“How much you love to cud―”

“Don’t! say it!” Dean pulled off swiftly, heaving an unsettled breath. “Really, do not.” He put a finger against Castiel’s lips before he spoke again. “Keep it between us.”

Castiel smiled against his finger, and only attempted to bite him once. Dean took a moment to reevaluate what he thought the other day, about kittens and finger-biting.

Shaking his head, still smiling, Dean put a slow, long kiss on Castiel’s lips. Castiel murmured, and broke the kiss to remove Dean’s leather jacket and hand it back. Dean flipped it over a shoulder, two fingers holding it there, hooked.

Castiel wrapped his arms around himself, cold as the light rose around them. They kissed once more, then parted ways.

“Come and see me tomorrow, Dean,” Castiel suggested, backing away towards his building, bare feet skimming the sidewalk. “Maybe we could paint something together. Again.” He tilted his head playfully, and Dean rushed with something delightfully physical.

He nodded. “Tomorrow evening, after work.”

“Yes.” Castiel was almost at his glass door, visibly shivering. “Bring some flowers.”

Dean retreated to the passenger seat of Charlie’s car, and sat down just as the sliding glass doors closed behind Castiel.

“What was that about?” Charlie said, turning a sharp eye on Dean. “You did painting with him and you didn’t tell me?”

Dean laughed, hands flattening over his knees. “It wasn’t really what you’d call painting.”

Charlie stared. And then she took a breath. “Oh. _Painting_.”

Dean screwed up his face in a grin, eyes tight shut, hands pressing his glasses frames into his face in his haste to shield his utter joy from Charlie.

Charlie started the engine again, shaking her head. “Boy, you’re blossoming prettier than a teenage girl.”

Dean couldn’t find a word to disagree.

✿

“I must admit,” Castiel said, eyebrows rising towards his hairline, “I didn’t expect you to bring so many.”

Dean smirked so fiercely that it made his face ache. As he sauntered in through Castiel’s open front door, the smirk broke into a grin, and he laughed under his breath. “Go big or go home, am I right?”

Castiel shut the door behind Dean, turning on the spot to look at him. He opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything, apparently at a loss for words.

The eighteen giant sunflowers Dean had carried across town weighed down his arms, wrapped in paper so the bristles didn’t sore his skin. He’d gotten hundreds of strange looks, but what was a strange look when the final look he would get was _that_?

Castiel was impressed. And amused. And possibly quite flattered, if the wobbly pinch at one side of his mouth was anything to go by.

He led Dean through the hallways, bypassing the kitchen to take the straight route to the painting studio.

The criss-crossed fairy lights weren’t switched on, and the sun hadn’t fallen yet. Under the cloudy sky, this room became bright but gloomy, cool but not cold.

The light rain danced on the roof, echoing a hiss and a constant gurgle across the whole room. The grooves in the corrugated plastic drained the water, and Dean looked up to see it trickling in a hundred tiny rivers towards the window on the far side, where a gutter caught the gushing liquid, not a droplet out of place.

“Put them here,” Castiel said, gesturing to a cushioned loveseat that was positioned where Dean had put his chair the other night. The red cushion became blotted with heavy yellow flowers, their raindropped petals leaving darker specks on the fabric.

Dean sighed in relief and shook out his arms, then bent down to begin unwrapping the flower stems like Christmas presents.

“So, what were you planning to do with these?” he asked, cocking his head over his shoulder to catch Castiel’s eye. “Maybe you might feel like having a Van Gogh moment.”

Castiel laughed with that rumbly deep noise he barely opened his mouth to make. He was clattering about with easels and canvases, but didn’t give any worded response.

Dean spent the moments of silence replaying his last words in his head, by no choice of his own - they seemed to echo, bouncing off the far walls and the shiny floor and the raindrops on the roof.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, fiddling with the last of the sunflowers’ paper.

“Hmm?”

Dean licked his lips, breathing out a smile that didn’t linger. “Sam would’ve given me a weird look if I mentioned Van Gogh.” He stood up and handed Castiel a group of sunflowers as he approached. A curious expression made Castiel’s face slack, but his blue eyes seemed keen. “Not to mention the fact I pronounced ‘ _Gogh_ ’ correctly.”

Castiel frowned as he took the flowers, eyes still on Dean as he moved towards the easel he’d set up. “Why would he give you a ‘funny look’?”

“Because,” Dean said, following with the other flowers, “I don’t usually make comments like that in front of Sam.”

“Why not?”

Dean took a breath, standing at Castiel’s side. He thought about his answer, feeling odd as he voiced it for the first time: “I think he’d be... surprised I said something intelligent. About something that wasn’t cars or strongbox machinery or the pipes at the back of an oven.”

Castiel was still frowning. “But he’s your brother. You worked with him for years, how can he not think you’re smart?”

Dean pulled in another breath, ready to disagree already, in defence of Sam. But he lost his train of thought, his logic failing. “He does. He tells me I’m... a smart cookie, or whatever.” Dean began to hand Castiel flowers as he arranged them, resting against a wheeled bookcase. “But research is his domain. When we did our whole... safecracking thing, he was the mastermind. Adam was the soul of it, he was what made it fun and interesting. And I’m - or, I _was_ \- the body. Brawn.” He flexed an arm, making his sleeve bulge. “Muscle.”

Castiel tilted his head, a ghostly smile on his lips as his eyes drifted to Dean’s crooked arm. “You certainly excel in your field.”

Dean grinned, but let his arm swing down, sticking his hand into his pocket. He felt uncomfortable, a long-buried anxiety beginning to claw at his lower stomach. He swallowed. “I don’t think Sammy expects me to _know_ things. I’m the guy who asks the basic questions so the audience is caught up on the plot.”

“You do know things.”

“I _know_ I know things,” Dean said, hands spreading out in exasperation. “I just don’t really... Heck. I don’t feel great when Sam looks at me like, ‘hey, you _know_ things?!’. It’s―

“Detrimental.” Castiel looked at Dean with a soft gaze - not pitying, but gentle.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Unintentionally condescending, maybe. So basically I don’t say clever things in front of him. I don’t tell him I already read a book that he’s all excited about.”

He smiled without any joy at all, turning his face towards the window, where the weak tail-end of the daylight made raindrops glow. “For months - I’m not kidding - _months_ , I tried to pretend I didn’t need glasses. I wore contacts so he wouldn’t call me a nerdy four-eyes―”

“Surely Sam wouldn’t say that?”

Dean shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t. He’d maybe tease me, like, once, then let it drop. But I didn’t want it to happen ever, so badly, that I―” Dean shrugged, “went and screwed up a couple of times on every job, even though I could see perfectly again, just so Sam wouldn’t notice the difference between before I got contacts and after I got contacts.”

Castiel was ignoring the sunflowers completely now, all his attention on Dean, who sank his hands deeper into his pockets.

Dean gulped and stared at the paint-splattered carpet under Castiel’s bare feet. “Sarah...” he laughed nervously, “She sometimes jokes she ‘married the smart one’.”

Dean’s stomach acid was curdling. Castiel wasn’t meant to be a therapist. And yet, Dean automatically spilled... _everything_.

He shut his eyes, realising all his insecurities were being laid out for Castiel to see, plain as day.

He felt fingers under his jaw, and he parted his lips, but didn’t open his eyes. He kind of wanted to pull away. If it was anyone but Castiel before him, he would have already ended this conversation. It never would have gone so far.

“Dean,” Castiel said, deep voice against Dean’s cheek. He sighed, breath gusting against the fine hairs in Dean’s ear. “There isn’t much I can say to you. It’s not me you need to hear reassurance from.”

Dean nodded, then shook his head. “I’m fine, Cas. Thanks anyway.” His eyes slid open a crack, and he blinked at the way the rain across the roof made this whole place look like it was shifting sideways.

Castiel pecked his cheek, then pulled away, hand leaving a warm trail on Dean’s skin.

Slowly, Dean gathered himself up, calmed by the way Castiel moved, shoulders wide and supple under the same shirt he’d worn out to the flower market the previous morning. His hands remained flecked with paint, and Dean, as he watched, realised Castiel had painted multiple canvases since Dean had last been here.

“What have you made?” Dean asked, sitting on the loveseat to undo his bootlaces. “Can I see?”

Castiel tucked a paintbrush behind his ear, which Dean found unexpectedly sexy.

“None of them are finished,” Castiel said, morosity in his tone. “I keep starting but I don’t work until they’re done. They’re not my usual subject matter, maybe that’s why.” He straightened his lips and his spine, breathing out. He then gestured towards the vertically stacked canvases. “Have a look if you want.”

Dean practically bounced towards the stack, knowing full well that Castiel had never, and may never still show these works to anyone but him. It made him feel special in ways that made him wonder if he was greedy, at the same time as feeling like he was swelling with satisfaction, pride at Castiel, himself honoured to be chosen like this.

Dean flicked his fingers between each canvas, and at once realised what Castiel’s woe was.

He had outlines drawn: a spindly structure beside a pond surrounded by trees, a second painting showing a wooden beehive in a field, a third showing a house. The latter was similar to the kind every child drew; two storeys, a front door, a few windows looking out over a garden.

None of them were completed beyond a layered wash of colour; green for the trees, beige for the house’s outer walls, a brush of sandy-green smears for the grass in the beehive’s field.

“What happened to the flying?” Dean asked, leaving the canvases to settle. “Where are the angels, the wings?”

Castiel shrugged, hands picking at the sunflowers as he arranged them again. “That angel lives on Earth now. He’s...” Castiel cleared his throat, a frown flickering between his eyebrows. “He’s building a home, he’s finding his place.”

Dean fingered the white edge of the nearest canvas, uneasy with the way Castiel wouldn’t meet his eye. “Cas, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

Dean let out a long breath, preparing himself.

“My family and me,” he began, “when we were driving cross-country every other week, hopping between cities for jobs, all I wanted was to sit down for a couple months, build a treehouse someplace, take some time out and do stuff I never got to do before. And I wasn’t a kid then, either. I was never a kid.”

Dean moved to stand beside Castiel, taking his hand and removing it from the sunflowers. He picked up a paintbrush, helped Castiel hold it like a pen. Without paint on it, he moved Castiel’s wrist, his hand, setting the bristles of the brush on the canvas.

“All I wanted was to sit grounded, and quit flying about,” Dean went on, letting go of Castiel’s hand and reaching for the yellow paint. “You told me that when you painted your angel over there―” he thumbed at the combusting figure falling across the right wall, “you felt like you lost something, and I don’t give a damn what it is if you’d rather not say, but - heh - obviously it resulted in some missing wings.”

Castiel leaned into Dean’s chest, letting him control his hand again, and together they brushed a long, yellow stroke across the canvas. Sunflower yellow, no outlines.

“All I’m saying,” Dean grinned, nudging his nose behind Castiel’s ear, inhaling the coy scent of his unwashed skin, “is that even if you don’t find what you lost, you gotta find something that means the same. I found something the other day, I thought I lost it ages back, but it turns out Sam had it all along.” He dipped his free hand under his t-shirt collar, pulling free the small horned amulet that Sam once gifted him. Castiel turned his eyes to look, and Dean thumbed the figure, then set it back under his shirt.

“I don’t quite follow,” Castiel said, sinking backwards as Dean pushed forwards, layering paint into a shape that could have been a sunflower, could have been a clumsy splosh of paint. “If you’re making a philosophical statement, it’s very long-winded.”

Dean chuckled against Castiel’s cheek, putting a single kiss to his prickly, well-structured jaw. “I’m saying you shouldn’t let _shit_ clip your wings. I don’t care if you have to leave this city, leave your papa, leave Daphne―” he inhaled, “leave me, even - but if you need to take off, you take the fuck off, you hear me?”

Castiel stopped breathing, stopped painting.

He turned around in Dean’s arms, their faces set apart, Castiel’s hands over Dean’s shoulders, still holding his brush. Dean held his waist, waiting for Castiel to speak and break that deeply concerned expression he wore.

“Dean. What makes you think I need to leave?”

Dean glanced to the set of half-coloured canvases, then the sunflowers, then Castiel. “Because I know what this crap means. You already told me your bucket list is overflowing, and honestly, just by you being here with me right now, and not with Daphne and her kid, it says a lot.

“You can’t finish the paintings that represent you as grounded. You’re not even in the _picture_ when you imagine that.” Dean pressed his lips together carelessly. “You don’t exactly want the stable home I want. You’re not ready to settle down.”

Then he swallowed and looked away, leaning his cheek against Castiel’s forehead. “We’re not perfect for each other, we’d be idiots to think we are.”

Castiel laughed slowly, almost a croak. “You’re far from perfect for me. I _never_ thought you were perfect.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re not.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m not.” Dean grinned, sighing as his eyes roamed the painting of the falling angel. “You ‘n me aren’t exactly forever material. I’ll be hunted down eventually, and you’re part of a different world entirely.”

Castiel’s hands slid to hold the back of Dean’s head. Lips pushed whispers to his neck; “But you did think about it. Didn’t you.”

Dean smiled. Had he thought about staying with Castiel forever? Yes. Did he see it as a real option? Every ‘yes’ had been wishful thinking, but the end conclusion was a negative.

“I did think about it,” Dean admitted. He felt sad, saying it, hearing the silent ‘no’ in its reply.

Castiel sighed. “Do you still think about it?”

Dean chuckled, squishing Castiel against him. “Yeah.”

“Do you still want to?”

“Want to what? Keep doing what we’re doing, go wherever the road takes us? Even knowing it’s... doomed, or whatever?”

The rain filled a silence, patter-patter-patter, trickles of useless pouring skies.

Castiel swallowed, pulling away from Dean, a quiet smile on his flat lips. “Not only that,” he said. “Do you still want to _try_?”

Dean started to laugh, eyes flicking away, unlooping his arms and stepping back from Castiel. “Try for what? Ride off into the sunset and have a happily ever after?”

“Dean, I’m serious.”

Dean’s eyes snapped back to Castiel, huge grin wilting. He still chuckled on his breath. “You’d break it off with Daphne?”

Castiel’s hopeful expression crumbled into blankness. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’?” Dean grinned again. “Did you forget you were wearing a ring?”

Castiel glanced down at his spread fingers. “I did, actually.” He looked back to Dean. “I could tell her what you and I have.”

Dean tilted his head. Did Cas really think that was a good idea?

Castiel gulped, thumbing his ring. He shook his head, gaze lifting to meet with Dean’s. “Neither of us can know for certain how the future will go. We should take it one day at a time.”

“That’s what Sarah and Sam used to tell me when they were helping me clean myself up,” Dean said, with a distant smile. Castiel’s returning smile was forced, but still genuine under his tense muscles.

“Tonight,” Castiel breathed... and then he stopped.

He looked at Dean pleadingly, puppy-eyes and heartbreak, face awash with the rain that cast darker shadows as the sun fell under the horizon.

“Tonight, I want to spend my night with you,” Castiel finished, with a nod, never breaking eye contact. “I don’t want to _deal_ with what we’re doing. I don’t... No, I don’t want to think about it.”

Dean offered a plain, trembling smile. He felt the same way, and admired Castiel for having the same weakness. They both knew how guilty the other felt. Same boat, and all that jazz. The same rocking, holey boat, heading for the same waterfall.

Castiel pushed the easel he was painting on aside, instead taking Dean’s hand and tugging him closer. He led him across the room, Dean’s socks sliding on the wood, Castiel’s hand holding him steady. They ended their short journey most of the way across the room, where a cot was set at an angle: a bed with no headboard, a low mattress, grey sheets that were tucked messily under it.

Castiel sat down on the side of it, looking up at Dean. The hue of his eyes seemed more pure, as the light around them had become blue, sparkles from the city lighting dots of colour on every window. Splatters and ticks of sound bombarded them from every side.

Dean let Castiel lead him forward some more, let him pull him atop his own body. Castiel lay back, smiling, warm. Dean’s knees sank into the mattress, deep and luxurious.

Castiel closed his eyes, and it seemed to stop there.

Dean lay his weight beside him. They wriggled together, turning to align their bodies with the length of the cot, so they could stretch their legs out. Castiel’s bare toes slid their way up the arches of Dean’s ticklish feet, and Dean held back a laugh, not wanting to break the ambience of their surroundings with his squawk.

The low rumble of thunder entered the room from around them, filling the place with a solid sensation. It tumbled under Dean’s body; Castiel held him tight through it, breathing against his shirt, hands relaxed on his hips.

Dean could imagine Castiel lying here, alone. Eyes resting, breath slow and silent so he could listen for the sky, listen to how it called an angel’s name.

They set forehead to forehead, eyes mostly closed so they could only see each other.

Castiel was smiling, at peace.

Dean was at peace, but he was not smiling. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t do it. It was like he’d forgotten how.

Or, as if he never knew.

✿

Dean inhaled sharply as something buzzed in his pocket. It started singing and clattering, and Dean scrambled to grab it. He set his hand around it, and pressed the button to make it shut up.

“ _Dean, where are you?_ ”

Dean set the phone to his ear, groaning at the sound of his brother’s voice. “Sam?”

“ _We thought you’d be home tonight. Are you okay?_ ”

Dean blinked hard, turning his head to see Castiel lying bleary-eyed and half-asleep beside him. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” Dean muttered, stroking his free hand through his hair, then setting it on the back of Castiel’s neck. Castiel’s eyes glimmered in the low light of the city, thin slits in the darkness. “What time is it?”

“ _Uhh, nine-thirty. I just got back from class, Sarah thought you’d gone out to give me a lift so she didn’t come get me._ ”

Dean grimaced. “Shiiit. Sorry, man.”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

Dean pulled in a breath, enjoying the smell of paint, of rain, of Castiel, and of sleep. “I’m somewhere. Classified. On a need-to-know basis. I guess I’ll be home tonight.”

Castiel’s head shot off the bed, and he stared at Dean with a face that clearly said ‘ _don’t leave me_ ’.

Dean licked his lips, not really hearing what Sam said next about dinner. Dean dropped the phone from his mouth, and to Castiel, he whispered, “Cas, I gotta go.”

“Why?” Castiel whispered back, his sad little mouth pulled down at the corners.

Dean swallowed, tongue dry. “I can’t stay with you forever.”

“But why not just tonight?”

Dean was sorely, _sorely_ tempted. He sank into the bed, staring at the grooved ceiling, watching the straight rivers course in lines over him. He put the phone back to his ear, hearing Sam calling, “ _Dean? Hello, are you still there?_ ”

“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean croaked, running fingers under his glasses to wipe away the sleep in the corner of his eyes. “I’ll be home in thirty.”

“Dean...”

Dean looked across at Castiel, hurt by how broken he looked.

He hung up the phone after muttering a quick farewell to Sam, and he put his phone back into his pocket.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said. He sat up, leaning over his thighs, back aching forward. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“What was this, tonight, Dean? I asked you to stay, you stayed, and now you’re leaving?”

“Sam wants me home.”

Castiel slunk and sat beside Dean, rumpled jeans pressed together. “I heard the conversation, Dean. He told you to stay out, have fun, and wear a condom.”

Dean scoffed. “I missed that part.”

Castiel leaned over his own thighs, sitting the same way as Dean. “Why are you really leaving?”

Dean rolled his eyes and stood up, plucking his t-shirt so the cloth unstuck from his skin. “Doesn’t take a genius, Cas. You tell me.”

Castiel’s jaw twitched almost imperceptibly, then he stood up, too. “What are you scared of?”

Dean snorted a soft laugh; more resigned than amused. He smiled at Castiel. “Falling.”

✿

It took until Dean had left, and Castiel returned to his studio and looked upon yet another unfinished painting, for him to realise that what Dean meant was that he’d already fallen. Like the angel in the painting. Like Castiel.

They were both grounded. Sunflowers with deep roots, houses with foundations, bees with their own hive. They were tied to San Francisco like wayward kites on strings.

Travel was in Dean’s blood. He may enjoy building his nest, but he wanted to fly away as badly as Castiel did. Tied kites caught in a hurricane.

Dean left tonight, because when Dean told Castiel to take off if he needed to, Castiel was meant to tell Dean to _come with him_.

✿

Dean closed the door quietly, almost tiptoeing into the apartment. The lights were off, but the place still had its luminescent moonlit aura, as it always did at night.

“Oh, you’re home,” Sam’s voice came from the end of the hallway, peeking out of his bedroom. Dean stopped tiptoeing, since Sam had waited up, staying awake until he returned.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean muttered, hoping it didn’t look like he’d just done the late-night walk of shame.

“Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“What are you, my mom?”

“No, I’m your brother,” Sam said, smiling tiredly. “And last time you snuck around at night, it didn’t bode well for any of us.”

Dean sighed, looking at the mess of blankets on the couch that had already been rolled out for him. They looked cosier than usual, because someone else had done it for him. “Yeah, well,” he said. “This time it’s not dangerous. Just stupid.”

“Is there a difference?”

Dean smiled at the floor. Unless his past caught up with him, nobody was going to die from how he felt for Castiel. But hearts would be broken, it was inevitable. “Yeah. There’s a difference.”

Sam seemed unsure, so he approached, bare feet and bare legs leading up to baggy shorts and a t-shirt that used to be their father’s. He set a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean met his eye.

Sam looked at him like he was the elder brother, sometimes. Dean tried so hard to take care of Sam - it was in his nature to care, it was his design, his duty - but more often than not, all he ended up doing was tripping into a hole and waiting for Sam to dig him out. (Literally, on two occasions.)

Sam shook his head, and pulled Dean in for a hug.

“Whoa,” Dean said, not struggling away, but still surprised enough that he didn’t wrap his arms around Sam’s huge shoulders. “You okay there, little brother?”

Sam snuffled into Dean’s shirt, then pulled away, gripping Dean either side of his face. “I’m fine,” Sam smiled. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Safe?”

Sam swallowed. “You said ‘I love you’ on the phone before you hung up.”

“So?” Dean frowned. “You gonna start calling me a girl now, Samantha? Can’t I tell my baby brother I love―”

“Dean, you haven’t told me that in months. You used to... You remember, right? You used to say it when everything was dangerous, just―”

“Just in case,” Dean finished, eyes widening, a coldness in his stomach. He mouthed on nothing, then fought to speak his thoughts: “Nothing was wrong. Well, no danger. I was... I was maybe upset, a little bit.”

“Nothing bad?”

Dean shook his head, and Sam finally let go of him. Dean adjusted his glasses, wriggling his nose until they set straight.

Sam stepped away, then moved towards the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked Dean.

Dean grinned. “Sure. I’ll make you some bacon, how’s about that?”

Sam laughed, letting Dean go ahead. “You’re the only one who burns it properly.”

“You know that’s right!”

They moved in sync around the kitchen for a while. Sam got the lights, filling the room with brightness; Dean got the bacon, the pan, then Sam got the butter, the cheese, and the plates.

Dean thought to himself as he cooked, but it took him until he was flipping the first rashers before he asked his questions. “You don’t think I’m stupid, do you?”

Sam froze as he checked on the cheesy toast under the oven grill. “Uh, no?”

Dean set his jaw, eyes not leaving the pan. “You laughed at me when I got glasses.”

“That’s... because you look like a 1960’s scientist,” Sam said, still unsure what Dean was getting at. “I got used to them, then I didn’t notice them any more.”

Dean shrugged, fiddling with the hair at the back of his neck, palming the skin there. “I was saying to Cas tonight―”

“So that’s where you were!”

“Shut up. Was sayin’, I don’t tell you when I think of clever shit any more. You like being the smart one, so... I let you have it, I guess.”

“...What are you talking about?”

“I play sudoku. And I know how to make bomb detonators out of car radios and thumbtacks. I can read people by how often they blink - I mean, I’m not great, but I’m working on it. I know who Van Gogh is, and yeah, I know how to say his name right. I read Vonnegut and Tolstoy and Verne. And I read freakin’ _Lord of the Rings_ a month before you did when we were kids, and twice as fast.”

Dean swallowed hard, flipping the bacon again, watching as it began to blister. “I really love reading. I like _Harry Potter_ too. I’m a friggin’ Dumbledork, so suck it. And I _also_ know how to knock someone out with two fingers.” He raised those two fingers, turning them in a circle. “I have a San Francisco library card. I can do long division in my head - it’s slow, sure, and I gotta scream at something when I do it, but I can do it.”

He stuck out his chin, grabbing the plate Sam set down, and scraped the bacon onto it. “I speak fluent Spanish. And I never told you that ’cause you were so proud of being the only Winche― Wesson who took high school Spanish. Or completed high school, for that matter. Well, let me tell you somethin’, Sammy - tengo un GED y una actitud que da candela!”

With a bright, smug smile, Dean handed the dumbfounded Sam his plate of grilled cheese and bacon.

“Huh,” Sam said.

Dean smiled a little more smugly.

Sam turned away, staring at his plate. He sat at a stool, put his plate on the wooden bar, and set one hand under his chin. He ate some bacon. “Weird,” he said.

“It’s not _that_ , weird,” Dean said, smile slipping.

“What? What, no, not that,” Sam said, catching Dean’s eye. “This bacon’s a bit cold.”

Dean snorted, and thunked his plate down, sitting beside Sam.

He smiled again as he ate, feeling warm inside, despite how weirdly cold the bacon indeed was.

(Dean loved his little brother very much.)


	18. Pretty

Dean locked Cupid’s Bow after work the next evening, and bolted up the stairs, going straight for his bedroom, a grin on his face and his heartbeat pounding in his head.

He grabbed a thick paper shopping bag, one with string handles and a neat fold. It was best for what he needed it for; it wouldn’t damage the goods.

All Castiel’s text message had told him to do was to come over for the evening.

And to bring something _pretty_.

✿

Dean waited for Castiel to open his door.

He was already lively. His face had glowed brighter all the way up in the elevator, he’d watched his blush rise, his excitement growing. It certainly wasn’t to be held against him if his cock was a tiny bit plump against his thigh, because he had no idea what was to come, and that added to how much he was looking forward to it.

He was going to stay the night this time, he knew it at the moment he walked past Castiel when he entered. Maybe he hadn’t been sure until that very second, but feeling heat rolling off Castiel, feeling his own building pressure, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave this alone.

He began the way he needed to, as they stepped into the kitchen: “I’m sorry I took off last night,” Dean said, taking the glass of water Castiel handed him. “I don’t really know why I left.”

“I do,” Castiel replied, a tiny smile on his lined lips. He blinked slowly, once, then took a sip of his own water.

Would he ever explain, or would Dean have to ask?

Castiel met his eyes, seeing Dean’s uncertainty. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean. I promise you.” He nodded, quite firmly, then stepped forward and set his drink on the kitchen counter top. He took Dean’s, too, and when both their hands were free, Castiel pushed into Dean’s space and encompassed him in a hug.

Dean still felt like his question had gone unanswered, but he enjoyed their closeness for the time being. Castiel smelled like office plastic, like chewed pens and pencil shavings. Dean curled his arms around his shoulders and held him, sighing. He closed his eyes, glad their hugs always went on for so long.

“I mean to say,” Castiel said, voice muffled by Dean’s red flannel shirt, “that if I were to ‘fly away’, as it were, then I would not leave without warning.” He hugged _tighter_ , which surprised Dean, but he breathed out and let it happen. “And I expect the same from you, Dean. If Witness Protection ever fails you, then I want - _need_ you to tell me that you’re leaving before you go.”

Dean screwed his eyes up tight, realising what this had become in such a short space of time.

And he only had one solution to it. “Cas, if I go. If I leave...”

Castiel pulled out of the hug, shaking his head, face still so close to Dean’s as he rammed his lips into Dean’s mouth, hands clutching at his face. Castiel whimpered more than moaned, surging at him, backing him up against the counter so Dean was bending backwards.

Castiel was breathing fast, all hands, needy and furiously grappling with Dean’s body, trying to bring him close. But it wasn’t lustful, not satisfying the throb that Dean had entered this apartment bearing. This kiss they shared now, it was a stupid, teenage promise; they’d run away together.

It would never come to that, Dean was already sure of that. Benny had them covered. San Francisco was meant to be home forever.

But it felt like an anchor on their ship to feel this unspoken deal sealed. Sealed with a kiss.

Dean broke the kiss, nodding. “Yeah,” he whispered, words bristling on Castiel’s pink lips. “If I leave, you’re coming the hell with me.”

Castiel sank his body around Dean’s, butterfly kisses pressed in a line across Dean’s jaw, all the way to his ear. “I’m sorry,” he said, but Dean wasn’t sure what for.

Dean nudged away and smiled at him. “We are such fucking idiots.”

Castiel laughed, eyes crinkling. His face was carved with the laugh lines of a younger man, his deep blue eyes showing a joy Dean revelled in the sight of. He almost gasped, seeing such mirth on Castiel’s beautiful face.

Dean kissed his lips softly, a long, lingering peck.

Castiel at last let go of Dean’s head, thumbs wriggling down his neck as his palms smoothed the way. Castiel took both of Dean’s hands, then pulled him forward, off the kitchen worktop, leaving Dean’s lower back to pang with a possible future bruise.

“Did you bring what I―”

“What you told me to bring? Yep,” Dean finished, a hand sweeping down to the kitchen tiles to grab the bag he’d dropped. “Charlie and Sarah caught me on my way out. Thought I was stealing kittens, not transporting my own underwear miles across the city.”

“How are your kittens doing, by the way?”

Dean shrugged, grinning as Castiel led him by the hand down the hallway towards the painting studio. “Eleven days old, still cute as fuck. One of them almost opened their eyes this morning before work. Sam dragged me out of bed and was like ‘oh my god, you gotta look at this!’”

“And?”

Dean chuckled as they entered the studio together, where stuffy summer heat made this place like a greenhouse, a feeling Dean was very comfortable with. “And it was the kitten I named Honeybee.”

Castiel beamed at Dean, astounding bliss on his face, which the hazy white-yellow light from above seemed to intensify.

“Aaand?”

“And she has blue eyes,” Dean said, letting Castiel spin him around by his hands, dancing to their words rather than music. “Exactly like yours.”

Castiel laughed, tucking his nose in the gap of skin behind Dean’s shirt collar.

“Sarah says all kittens have blue eyes though,” Dean added, turning himself around to try to lead Castiel.

Castiel let himself be led, until Dean realised he was, in fact, still leading Dean.

“I’m sure Honeybee will be a magnificent feline when she grows up,” Castiel said, dipping Dean by his lower back, making Dean inhale and lose all understanding of gravity. Dean’s weight was positioned perfectly in Castiel’s arms, and he laughed as Cas pulled him back upright.

They stood with their foreheads pressed together, Dean breathing heavier than he had been before. His smile didn’t fall, his eyes didn’t open, he just stood and he basked in the scent of Castiel and the smell of sun-warmed paint particles.

This whole place smelled of Castiel. In Dean’s current state of mind, that made it smell pretty much like Heaven.

“Why did you want me to bring my stuff this evening?” Dean asked, licking his lips once his whisper had passed over them. “Got something against me being naked?”

“I was hoping I could draw you.”

Dean managed a double-take, and he forced his eyes open, his smile pulling into a grin as he set both palms on each side of Castiel’s collarbone. His white office shirt was starchy, and Dean felt the heat of his skin through the thin material. Castiel was the embodiment of the evening summer sky for a moment, and Dean lost his vocal thoughts.

“Draw... me?”

“Like in _Titanic_.”

“You watched _Titanic_?” Dean laughed, combing spread fingers through Castiel’s dark hair. He felt the urge to kiss, so he did; an open-mouthed smooch against Castiel’s temple, breath ruffling his clipped sideburn.

“I did,” Castiel said. He nodded, then straightened Dean’s collar, fingers grazing his Adam’s apple. “And we still have sunflowers left over. They might add to the image, wouldn’t you say?”

Dean ducked his chin, a sly thought crossing his mind: he’d never let Sam see him like this. The way he behaved with Castiel was part of him, yes, but it was also a secret. In some way, he was still closeted. He’d outed himself to Sam as a bright young thing, but the underlying romantic in him was still buried beyond Castiel’s presence.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, pushing his lips to Castiel’s. “You got me, I’ll go change.” He grinned slightly, buzzing with anticipation. “Do you want to help me pick something?”

Castiel’s eyes lit up. “Can I?”

Dean nodded. He was enjoying the firm grip Castiel put on each of his hips, keeping him close, but he removed himself from Castiel’s hands so he could reach the bag he’d dropped, yet again.

He didn’t feel embarrassed at all, showing Castiel what he’d brought. Unlike when Sarah or Charlie saw, his display to Castiel didn’t need to be punctuated by questions.

Castiel grasped a pair of red suspenders in one hand, white lacy panties in another. Dean put the bag down and pulled the last pair of black boyshorts out of the bag, holding them taut between his fingers so Castiel could see the frill on the edge.

“I’m - really glad I don’t have to explain this to you,” Dean muttered, turning the boyshorts around so he could admire their front. “Charlie immediately thought I was into crossdressing―” Dean grinned uncomfortably, “and that’s seriously not what this is.”

Castiel looked up, lips separating.

Dean’s stomach dropped, and his eyes widened. “Wait, you thought... That’s what you thought this was?”

Castiel closed his mouth carefully, eyes never wavering from Dean’s. But he didn’t answer, too cautious.

Dean scrunched the boyshorts up in his hand and snatched the suspenders and panties away from Castiel, sitting himself firmly down on the cushioned loveseat behind him. “Great. _Great_.”

Castiel knelt at Dean’s feet, hands on his thighs. “Dean―”

“It isn’t that, okay? I don’t see this stuff and want to look like a girl. That’s not - _Christ_ ―”

“Dean, if you explain, I’ll understand.”

“Tell me what you thought this was.”

The low sun reflected off the corner of Dean’s glasses, making a crescent of light sit over Castiel’s cheek as his eyes wandered away, thinking. “I got the impression you enjoyed wearing... feminine items.”

His cheeks coloured as he said it, and Dean clenched his hands up, wishing he could just be _comfortable_ with it.

“It’s not a kinky thing,” Dean said, trying to keep the snippiness out of his voice. “I don’t get _off_ on wearing this shit.” He waggled the suspenders beside Castiel’s head, but Castiel didn’t even look at them, all his attention on Dean’s words. “I don’t want to look like a friggin’ girl, I want to look like _me_.”

“Male,” Castiel said, gaze switching between each of Dean’s eyes. “But with...”

“But with clothes that feel good?! Is that really so freakish?”

Castiel writhed minutely, hands tightening on Dean’s thighs. “It’s not freakish, Dean, I just don’t understand yet. Please... explain it, and I’ll understand.”

“I said they made me ‘pretty’, right? And you got that, ‘cause you texted me today, saying to bring something pretty.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

Dean hated this feeling - he wasn’t even _mad_ at Cas, he was upset, and it was translating into irritation because he didn’t want to be the grown man who cried like a child because his lover didn’t _understand_ him.

“Well, ‘pretty’ is all it is,” Dean said, frowning as he tipped his head down, breaking his gaze from Castiel’s. “I have these clothes made up to fit me. There’s no bras or corsets or stilettos, this stuff is - for want of a better description - unisex.” He scoffed. This was fucking ridiculous, he despised the words coming out of his mouth. This _thing_ he did, it wasn’t meant to be explained. It was just meant to be _done_.

“I don’t wear fancy lingerie like chicks do, it’s not to impress anyone. I honestly thought you got it, that first night. I thought you realised that it’s not for you, it’s for _me_.”

Castiel took a breath. “Should I not have asked you to bring them today? You don’t have to wear them, I’m not forcing you if you don’t want―”

“Cas.” Dean dropped the fabric, holding Castiel’s jaw between his hands instead. He looked down at him softly, wanting to melt into him. “Cas, I want to put something on today. They make me feel better.” He shrugged a shoulder, a tiny smile quirking his lip. “If I feel sexy, it would make your drawing sexy, that’s for sure.”

Castiel shot up on his knees to put his lips on Dean’s, sighing against his cheek. “Feel confident, Dean. That’s what this is.”

Dean nodded, finally breaking into a smile. “Yeah. Confidence.”

Castiel kissed his nose, then rubbed his own side-to-side over the bridge. “You choose what you want to wear, Dean. Come and show me, I’d like to see.”

Dean held back his sigh of relief. He didn’t want Castiel to find out exactly how deeply he’d been worried; Dean was insecure as _fuck_ \- about a lot of things, not just this - and that knowledge and awareness just doubled how much it affected him.

He stood up, and Castiel stayed kneeling, handing Dean the panties he’d dropped. Dean took them, letting the silk slip a short way between his fingers.

“There are empty bedrooms along the hall, if you’d rather put them on in private,” Castiel offered, pointing towards the tunnel that led back to the rest of the apartment. “I’ll wait here.”

Dean pushed open the first door he came to, dark oak, a creak in the hinge that came from both disuse and the weight of the door itself. He walked into a bedroom, filled with filtered light that poured through the window on the far wall. Through it, Dean saw a view of the whole city ahead, and he was stunned.

This bedroom was nothing like the one Castiel slept in. Castiel’s was practically a shoebox, with only one skylight; this place was a palace.

Closing the door, eyes still on the view, Dean stripped himself naked. He didn’t care who saw him, they’d either be mentally scarred or have the time of their life, and either way, it was their fault for spying.

The late afternoon sun warmed his skin. It came slanted through the window, and it was tremendous. The mirror on the left wall amplified its light, its radiance. Dean could have lain down on the double bed here and soaked this place up like a sponge.

What he wouldn’t give to have money to afford a home like this...

But, no. He was satisfied with his own place, he needed that homely kind of comfort, not this exuberant kind of luxury.

He took his horned brass amulet off last, even after his wristwatch. He lay the necklace over the crumpled pile of clothes on the bed, fingers trailing it as the leather cord settled in a natural curl. Sam’s gift was Sam’s _presence_ to Dean, and given what he and Castiel were planning to do, and the things Dean knew they would talk about, Sam’s presence was not something he wanted, even in spirit.

Now he was stark naked, it was finally time for the good part.

He dipped his foot into the first leg hole of the white lace, then the second. Taking the sides of the garment under his fingers, he wriggled the hips of the panties up his bowed legs, slinging their gentle elastic upwards, careful not to catch his leg hair.

His legs were slim, his muscle from his more active years wasted away, but their shape remained toned. His breath caught as he realised, maybe, his legs could be seen as a little bit feminine.

No. No, that was irrelevant. It didn’t _matter_.

Lace hugged his body tight, snug against his scrotum, holding in the pert bulge of his penis. The lace warmed on his skin, and the initial coolness of the material faded.

To the mirror on the wall he turned, breath shivering in his chest, lips trembling in his excitement. He _loved_ how he looked, wearing this. He could turn any way, to his right, to his left, legs apart, legs together at the knee, turned at the hip - and he would appear slim, _slender_ , sleek and beautiful. The glorious light did not hamper this at all; he couldn’t help but let a thought cross his mind: he looked like a god.

Green eyes, freckles and a smile, lips curved. White lace against pale, once-tanned skin.

Dean Wesson: adonis.

Leaving the other items where they were, and leaving his clothes too, Dean turned the doorknob and stepped back into the cool, dark hall. The wood was cold under his feet, and it felt like its polish clung to his skin as he stepped towards the studio.

He could see the light from ahead, the sun breaching the whole end of the corridor as it entered through Castiel’s panoramic windows and roof. The rain last night had cleared the sky, and the brightness was pure now, clear.

Dean walked silently inside the studio, arms around himself: not cold, not uncomfortable, but still holding back until he was ready.

Castiel was sitting on a chair, facing the loveseat, his back to his easels and his stacks of paint. In his lap, he fiddled with a large white notebook, a pencil between his fingers. The light broke over his shoulders and drenched his shirt, making it glow like he had bathed in the sunshine. His back was hunched, relaxed, not caring about the things his father had instructed him about posture when growing up, all the things he’d told Dean about.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, bare feet approaching.

Castiel looked up at him, and he smiled, easy and peaceful. “Oh, you are beautiful.”

Dean thrilled upon hearing those words. His arms unravelled from his middle, letting Castiel see his hips, his navel. He spread his palms to his sides, walking so he stood beside Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes lingered on Dean’s crotch before shooting back to his face, his smile still strong. “Lie down for me.”

Dean knelt on the loveseat, his knee sinking into the embroidered red material. He lay on his side, feeling his cock sinking to one side with gravity, but he rolled onto his front, then onto his back.

“Here,” Castiel said, offering Dean a fat cylindrical pillow that matched the loveseat. “Rest your head on that. Turn towards me...”

Dean wriggled until he was comfortable, legs twisted together, one foot dangling from the end of the seat. He lay one arm over the pillow, fingers in his own hair. His hips rolled up unconsciously, experimentally - he was turned on by this, but not necessarily in a way that screamed a need to rub against Cas. He was just... floating, helpless, totally at ease with the way Castiel looked at him.

He didn’t even notice he was still wearing his glasses, and even when he did notice, he didn’t care. Castiel would make him feel good, Dean trusted him to do that.

Castiel suddenly stood up, then moved to pick up one of the sunflowers that were perched inside a very tall painted jar. He pulled out its full green stem, then got a pair of scissors, cutting it to the length of Dean’s forearm. He walked to Dean’s side, and with a slow caress down his bare side with the backs of his knuckles, he handed Dean the sunflower.

Dean took it wordlessly, holding it in the hand that was raised over the pillow. The flower bloom dangled, Dean’s beauty held in his own hand.

Castiel sat on his chair once more.

“Can you see my scars?” Dean whispered, licking his lips, noticing that Castiel had begun to draw already. “Are you going to draw them?”

“I will draw what I see,” Castiel replied, eyes flicking up, then back to his paper. “There is a great deal of honesty to be found in places like this.”

“Places like your house?” Dean grinned. “You know you sleep in a cupboard, right?”

Castiel smiled, nodding. “The other bedrooms seemed too grand for me. I prefer small spaces, somewhere I can only have what I need the most. If I wanted a view, I could look outside my living room window.”

“But there’s a great view in all the other rooms. Why sleep in the one where you can only see the sky?”

Castiel smiled again. “You tell me.”

Dean didn’t shrug, knowing he ought not move. “You like the sky?”

“I do like the sky.”

“You don’t like the city.”

Castiel chuckled. “I do like the city. I simply like the sky more.”

Dean felt a heat descend his body as Castiel’s gaze took in his form once again, half checking him out, half observing him. Dean curled his toes, rubbing his legs together.

“One day, Cas,” Dean said, eyes closed, the filling brightness of the sun turning his vision to the colour of thin veins, “One day you and me should take a trip together. See the world.”

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“See some tigers and stuff,” Dean said. “Real tigers, not plushie ones.”

Castiel laughed softly. “I hope you like your toy. I thought it was silly, but then again―”

“Off-topic, Cas,” Dean interrupted, eyes snapping open. “Yeah, I love the little guy. Called him Henry―” Castiel inhaled with a wide smile, meeting Dean’s eyes, “―but I’m still talking about the whole world.”

“I would be honoured to travel with you.”

Dean beamed. “Good,” he said. “Good, it’s settled then.”

Castiel turned his notebook around a few inches. “Yes.”

Dean and Castiel stayed silent for a while. Dean pondered taking a nap; the sun was setting, this place had become stiflingly warm, but not enough to make Dean sweat.

Castiel moved his wrists with an elegance that kept Dean focused. His eyes would chase the fingers, the graze of pencil shade that had rubbed onto the side of Castiel’s hand. The dark hair on his arms was ruffled, his sleeves rolled up. The stubble on his face caught the light in places, sharp points of minuscule hairs, firmer than his eyelashes, which shone the same way.

And his eyes. His eyes feasted on Dean’s body, scientifically, artistically - examining him, judging his shapes and his curves and the places where skin overlapped, showed darknesses and patches, scars shown up by the sun. And he gazed upon him. Lingered on his thighs, on his eyes, on his hands and his hips; he licked him with his vision, he tended to him with touches that never rested on his skin.

Dean was cared for, told he was beautiful without a word spoken.

He’d known all along how much he needed to hear it. He’d asked Castiel to say it once, one of the first times they had acted out a date with Daphne. Dean had laughed about it at the time - it had been a _joke_. _Tell me I’m pretty._

It seemed shallow. Men didn’t need that, shouldn’t need that.

“I’m not meant to be pretty,” Dean breathed, shutting his eyes. “I - I got that since I was a kid, you know? I drive cars and I break things, I bandage up my little brother when he scabs his knee, but I’m not meant to ask Uncle Bobby to take us to see a ballet.”

Castiel didn’t stop drawing, but Dean knew he was listening; his eyebrows raised.

“I grew up and I got beat up, hit by all kinds of shit. Bullet shrapnel leaves a nasty scar when all you have is tweezers and whiskey to fix it.”

Castiel swallowed, lips pressed together. When he raised his eyes to look at Dean again, their gaze met. Castiel was looking at him to watch his face, see how to draw it, not to share conversation. He offered a soft blink, but he would not interrupt. Dean could talk, Castiel was there to hear him.

“Scars don’t make you feel good,” Dean said, listening for the grit in his voice. He spoke deep, he spoke rough; the voice created by the life he’d lived. Castiel spoke deeper than Dean, but his voice was like petrol, fire, simmering water. Like glass blown out of windows, like smoke rising from a forest on a winter morning. Dean’s voice was coal in a furnace, already lost. Tired.

“I don’t actually care what I look like,” Dean whispered, watching Castiel’s wrist turn, stretching out an ache. “I eat a lot, I eat total crap, the only reason I still have a figure is ‘cause my genes are damn good in the metabolism department.

“I don’t care about the fucking scars. I’d come back to motel rooms with a new scar every day. My knuckles met glass more often than they met jaws - I didn’t learn to steal things properly for years. I’d leave fingerprints, and the glass left its mark on me, too.”

Dean sighed, swallowing. The heat in here was making his mouth dry. “I don’t care if people think I’m pretty on the inside, or whatever. As far as I’m concerned, people either see me as a work of art, or a nasty piece of work, and fuck if I care which. I used to lie for a living. I bullshit my way into making people feel the way about me I want them to feel.”

Slowly, Dean let his gaze rest upon Castiel’s face. “When I came here, it was different. I was clean, and I got my fourth chance. This is my fourth life on Earth. And it took me this many times to know what I needed.”

“What was it?” Castiel asked, eyes not leaving his paper. “What did you need?”

“Truth?” Dean shrugged, then attempted to settle the same way he’d been lying before. “From myself, I mean. I’d been hopping between personalities all my life. Hiding from my dad, not letting him see when I was hurt ‘cause he’d hurt me more for screwing up. Not telling anyone I liked dick as well as pussy.” Dean gritted his teeth as he saw Castiel’s slight cringe.

“When Dad died it took me a few years to let go of it. I kept more secrets than I did before. Drugs, I never told Sammy about the drugs. He worked it out before I even realised I had a problem.

“But we moved here, and I was... done with it.” Dean sighed. “Gave up. Took the job I wanted, screw looking like a manly man. I like flowers, and anyone who thinks I’m weak for that can stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

He sighed. “I made friends with Sheriff Benny, which as far as my previous lives’ rules went, that was a huge no-no. No regrets, either.”

Dean smiled, ignoring the ache in his limbs, still holding in one position. “Guess you know the story. Watched all the Disney movies I wanted, let Sam make friends with Gabriel without threatening to shoot him first, fell in love, yadda yadda. Wore the clothes I’d been pining after for years. Let myself... love myself, or something.”

“There is that,” Castiel said, considering Dean’s near-nude form again. “Falling in love lets you find what you love about yourself. So you can show them... what you love.”

“Tell me,” Dean said, raising his head an inch before letting it flop back down. “What do you love about yourself?”

Castiel bit his lip, chuckling. “My artistic side. The creative part of me. I never even considered showing anyone, not after my father told me it was useless. I love so many things, Dean,” he said, looking Dean in the eye, smiling brightly. “You’ve... helped me accept that.”

Dean’s toes curled again, flattered by the joy Castiel put in his compliments. “There’s more where that came from.”

“A lifetime’s supply, I’d imagine.”

“And more.”

Castiel laughed, his legs pressing together, bare toes overlapping. “I look forward to it.”

They kept going for what could have been another half an hour. They kept talking - things of no consequence, things that made Dean squirm with quiet laughter, things that made Castiel rub his forehead in shame, smiling at himself.

The sun left the world behind, and the apartment turned a murky blue, but Castiel did not get up to turn the house lights on.

So Dean lay in the dark, listening to Castiel hum something his mother used to hum.

And he felt beautiful. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It felt new in ways he’d never felt newness before; acceptance was behind him, and he’d fallen into pride. Pride in himself. It felt amazing.

Castiel had never stopped giving, ever since the moment they met. Dean didn’t think he would ever stop. When Castiel ran out of songs, Dean sang his own, and Castiel gave him harmony. When Castiel ran out of light, sketching in the gloom, he gave Dean an ending.

“I think I could call it done, now,” he said, his low voice like a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Would you like to see?”

“Hell yes,” Dean breathed, groaning as his bones creaked, sitting upright once more. “Aw, this is nothing like _Titanic_. Kate Winslet had boobs and nice hair. I’m all thirty-five-and-counting.”

Castiel stood up, popping his joints behind his back. With a sigh, he set down his drawing pad and walked over to the light switch.

The ceiling shot with golden, the grid of stars ticking into existence. Dean leaned back on his hands and purred at the shine that came from above; it offered a gentle security that fluorescents would never be able to achieve.

Castiel returned to his side, and sat at Dean’s thigh, one hand stroking his inner leg. Dean’s leg twitched as Castiel tickled him on purpose, and Castiel let himself be shoved away, laughing.

“Are you ready?” Castiel asked, holding the cover over the drawing pad so Dean couldn’t see the drawing yet.

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. “If you spent that long drawing a stick figure, though, I might just punch you.”

Castiel grinned, shaking his head as he flipped the pad open to the page he’d drawn on. “Nothing like that. I told you before.” He showed Dean the page, offering it for Dean to hold. “I draw what I see.”

Dean lay on the page, hip bones jaunty, skin appearing to glow with health, even in the shade of grey pencil Castiel had used. The sunflower spread from his hand, held lazily, the bloom an extension of himself.

The tattoo, the scar, the X on his shoulder - it could not be seen.

It could not be seen because over half his body, Dean had a pair of wings. Feathered like a bird’s, giant and magnificent like an eagle’s. Castiel had made him an _angel_.

Castiel squeezed Dean’s tender thigh. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, than what I see when I look at you,” he said, his eyes the colour of honey as the light touched them. “Whether angels exist or not, I believe they are the utmost representation of humanity. The first version, the failed version. The version that fell and became corrupt, but―” He took Dean’s face in his hands, brushing the drawing away, sliding the open book down Dean’s legs until it splayed on the floor. “But always, humans have worshipped them. Angels! The most... Oh, the most precious.” He kissed Dean, intense and small and furious; “The most treasured.”

Dean couldn’t breathe, he didn’t even understand. Castiel’s words sounded like nonsense to him, but it was incomparable nonsense. The way he spoke made Dean’s mind empty, filled with the sound of his voice instead, the colour of the light in his eyes, the touch of his hands against his face.

Castiel’s eyes were filled with tears. He smiled, broken, lips shaking. He pressed his cheek to Dean’s, and a droplet ran down Dean’s face. “Dean,” Castiel said. “Dean...”

Dean held onto Castiel’s shoulders, then moved one hand to hold his hair, still warm from the sun, soft as anything, fluffy. Dean breathed, emotions unnamed becoming tossed in his body like crazy ships on a calm sea.

Castiel kissed behind his ear. “You are beautiful.”

Dean’s fingers curled, clutching Castiel closer.

Suddenly Dean felt hands under his thighs, fingers digging into his skin, and then Castiel _hauled_ Dean’s body into his lap - Dean didn’t know how he did it, he must have been stronger than Dean ever imagined. Now he was wrapped around Castiel’s hips, his knees in the cushion of the loveseat, his ass on Castiel’s lap.

Castiel cradled Dean’s body against him, arm around his back, hand against his shoulder, the other holding the crown of his head. “You are _beautiful_.”

“Cas, don’t,” Dean whimpered, curling into himself. “Don’t.”

“You want to know how I feel about you.” Castiel nuzzled the skin behind Dean’s ear, kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. “I am... so deeply in love with you. I want everything from you, yet I want nothing from you but your presence. And even then I would rather not have that than to see you love someone else. And I want you to share your love with everyone. Because there is... _so... much_ of it.” He grabbed at Dean, growling against his shoulder, _biting_ him. “I love you. Dean... I want what you want, I love what you love, I hate everything that isn’t you.”

Dean shook his head, laughing, crying, clutching Castiel with every bone, every muscle in his body. He would squeeze the life out of him, keep him safe forever. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I love you.” Dean laughed as Castiel sobbed into him, hands grappling to hold each other, needing more ways to get close. “Oh, god, Cas... I hate how much I love you.”

“You, Dean. You dazzle me.” Castiel kissed behind his ear again, loud and wanting. He made a sound, a noise, then kissed again. “Oh, I love you. You’re so gentle. You’re so _gentle_ , I want to rip that apart, it makes me so angry―”

“But you wouldn’t,” Dean whispered.

Castiel shook his head, rocking Dean with him. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t, I never would. I’d never hurt you.”

Dean rolled his hips against Castiel, bizarrely turned on by how much he felt. Castiel’s scent on him, his kisses behind his ear, nibbling him, his hands touching his whole body - it was enough to drive him mad, madder than everything already had.

Love was destructive the same way it made things bloom. The moment they shared now was a new flower on a vine of other passions, lives grown from two stems, joined in the middle. One flower between them.

“Every scar,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s shoulder. “It took every scar for you to make it here. Whoever or whatever is out there, up there, looking down on us, they ruined everything for you. They were cruel, Dean. They hurt you.”

“It wasn’t some fuckin’ deity that hurt me, Cas, it was people.”

“Wretched fate.” Castiel kissed Dean’s neck, breathing out hard, hands flat against Dean’s back. “Fates changed, your life was broken so many times. It destroyed you.”

Dean nodded. So many scars. “Doesn’t it scare you?” he asked, voice shaking as he breathed the question against Castiel’s hair. “Doesn’t it bother you I’m a murderer?”

Castiel’s laugh was weak, hysterical. “It does. It _horrifies_ me. It scares me, Dean, it makes my stomach churn and it... it makes me _hate_ you.” Dean heard the violence in that one word. _Hate_. It made him turn cold, but the ice in him flashed over with steam once more, as Castiel added, “And yet...”

Castiel kissed Dean’s throat, the skin over his jugular vein. “I know your hands.” He bit Dean’s throat, not enough to break skin. Dean trusted him absolutely. “I know what you did. There is more you won’t tell me, that’s okay. But the scars I know, they were made on a journey. The one you took to get here. So I could have you.”

Dean rested his head against Castiel’s. “You really think everything’s about you.”

“I think everything is about _you_ ,” Castiel corrected. “You’re my gift. My guide, my spirit, my angel. My charge, my ward, my child. My lover, my soulmate.” He kissed his lips, breathing over them. “I will give _every_ thing for you.”

It was hopeless for Dean to even consider coming back from this. If he ever lost Castiel, he’d be devastated beyond repair. Castiel and Sam were now the two halves of his life. Everything and everyone else was peripheral; still important, but not as much.

“I promise,” Dean said. There were no other words to go with that promise; it was for nothing, but it was for everything. “Cas, I promise you.”

“Then I...” Castiel grinned against Dean’s lips, pecking them. Their eyes met; Dean felt his own were wide, but Castiel’s were half-closed, his irises dark, glimmers in them like stars from another universe. “I promise you too,” Castiel whispered. He gave his honesty, unbroken by a blink or a falter; ended with a slow kiss.

Slow and long.

A kiss where everything unsaid went unsaid still.

Because nothing mattered. The world had become the two of them. The angel - the bird of paradise, the tiger - and his beloved honeybee.

✿

The love they made that night was not made with their bodies. They touched, but its worth transcended their human skin.

They lay in Castiel’s bed and they _held_ each other.

Castiel suspected Dean would have called it cuddling, given the chance, but the few words they did speak were not about their embrace.

They spoke about the way Castiel smiled. Dean traced his mouth with his finger, and he called it beautiful. Castiel wasn’t sure it was true, but Dean was adamant.

There were things about Castiel that Dean loved, things Castiel never saw as worthy of love.

Like his smile.

Like his laugh.

Like the way he rolled over in the bed and wrapped his arms around Dean’s body without being asked.

Dean’s mutterings implied to Castiel that in thirty-five years, he had never been held so perfectly.

When Dean flipped them around and held Castiel the same way, Castiel realised what he meant. They slept that way. Dean curled around Castiel, holding tight to him.

Holding hands.

✿

_The alarm was blaring,_ howling _, and it was so fucking loud that Dean’s eyes weren’t focusing properly. The bank was decked out with marble on every surface, so the wailing screech and the flashing lights were amplified a thousand times over._

_The cops were on their way. Dean wasn’t leaving this job unfinished, not if he ever wanted to see daylight again. He’d fucked up one too many times for his father to ever let him off the hook again. If he and his brothers made John drive to the motel empty-handed tonight, Dean was a dead man._

_His hands were sweating in his gloves, and he couldn’t get the damn safe open. Call it a Catch-22, Dean thought to himself, but it seemed like no matter whether he left with cash tonight or not, he’d be a dead man anyway._

_“I can’t fucking hear the clicks!” Dean snarled over his shoulder to Sam. who had his laptop open, code sequences pouring down his screen like his own personal Matrix. “Get that damn noise shut off or I swear to god―”_

_“I’m trying! Sam bellowed back, his face barely visible in the flashing dark. “This system is massive, my CPU’s not powerful enough for this.”_

_“Fuck!” Dean shouted, thumping a furious fist against the titanium wall he was up against._

_He loved these safes, he loved the ones that turned a dial like this one, with delicate clicks. He was good with these. He could take one like this out in under a minute, given the right conditions._

_These were not good conditions. They couldn’t have more than three minutes before they had company._

_“Where the hell is Adam?” Dean asked, glancing to the bag that sat gaping and empty beside his crooked knees. “When I get this thing open I need more hands.”_

_“I don’t know, he was keeping watch,” Sam said, slapping his hand on the side of the laptop screen, which did no good, nor damage. Sam glanced up, and Dean went back to concentrating on the dial._

_He couldn’t think with this noise, let alone hear anything worth hearing._

_He gritted his teeth and squinted at the dial again. He couldn’t even see the little numbers on it, and he hated himself for it. Too many books, too much squinting. Everyone else in his family had perfect eyesight, and he was the one doing the job that actually required good vision. His body let him down too often for him to trust it any more._

_He closed his eyes instead, and tried to shut everything out._

_One by one, things blotted themselves from his awareness. First went the feel of cold marble under his knees, then the pinching of ragged denim against the backs of his folded legs. Second went his vision; he no longer saw the flashing-flashing-flashing of the alarm lights. Everything went black, everything serene behind his eyelids._

_Under his fingers he felt the metal grooves in the dial, in his head he heard the tick-tick-click as it turned. The sensation pressed into his ears with the buds of his stethoscope, light vibrations running in his bones as he held the sensitive end of the equipment to the front of the safe._

_Earlier that day Adam had gotten their way in. Paid the right people, conned a few more out of good information. At two in the morning they were inside, and they’d gotten through three heavyweight, highly secure doors already, all down to Sam’s good work with his laptop. And now Dean was being tripped up by a simple lockbox._

_God, he’d never hear the end of it._

_“Sammy,” Dean frowned, knowing Sam could hear even the whisper that broke from his mouth. “Sammy, turn the alarm off. Please.”_

_Even with his eyes closed, he knew Sam was making his sympathetic, apologetic face._

_“I can’t, Dean,” Sam replied. “Not without taking down the whole system. I’d have to reset the sequences back to the way they were when we came in. The security monitors will go back up before I can wipe it - they’ll see our faces from when we entered the building. And they already have an APB out on you.”_

_Dean cracked his eyes open, watching the way the red and yellow lights snapped curves across his little brother’s young face. Twenty-five. He was too young to go to prison._

_Alarms made people agitated, that was the point of them. They instilled fear, and panic, and they brought with them a sense of urgency. Alarms, in a thief’s ear, inspired stupid decisions._

_Dean was twenty-nine. He could take a bullet for his brothers; they were barely part of this. Dean was the one with his face all over the news, not them. If Dean handed himself over, he could keep Adam and Sammy out of this mess. At least, that’s what Dean’s desperate mind told him._

_“Do it,” Dean said. “Take the system down when you’re done, maybe there’s a chance it’ll freeze the cameras.”_

_Sam nodded, already on it. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”_

_Dean chuckled. “Me? Ha. I_ never _know what I’m doing,” he said, incredibly sarcastically. So sarcastically, in fact, that even Sam saw through it._

_He shot Dean a reassuring glance. “I can take the system out,” he said, confident._

_“Good,” Dean nodded, returning to the safe. “And do it quickly, I think I can hear sirens.”_

_“You can’t hear sirens,” Sam said. “It’s just the alarm. Ignore it and get the door open, it’ll turn off in ten - nine - eight... Okay, I’m going to get Adam. I’ll be right behind you when you’re through.”_

_“Gotcha,” Dean breathed, squinching his eyes tight shut to attack the last few numbers on the rotary. It was guesswork, it always was. Being sure of what he was doing was nothing but a theory._

_Sam was gone, and Dean was alone in the giant safe. The duffel bag was still open, waiting._

_The sirens muted, and silence descended. The flashing lights went out, and everything went still._

_The safe became so quiet, so dark, that Dean now heard his own heartbeat, every shifting twitch of his fingers. In these conditions, he was a master. He smirked, and in three seconds flat, he had the safe door open._

_“Got it!” he shouted, voice echoing back through the bank vault. “Come give me a hand with this!”_

_Adam came in first, panting - Dean recognised his footsteps. Dean grinned at him as he turned around, already grabbing cash by the handful and tossing it into the bag._

_“Damn,” Adam grinned, throwing himself to his knees to help. His eyes lit up, seeing the money. Their prize. “Are these all hundreds? Holy crap, we really hit the jackpot. Who’s for a fifty-inch pizza tonight?”_

_“Don’t celebrate yet,” Sam said, urgently, scooping up his laptop, unplugging the wires and wrapping them around its screen at the same time as slamming the lid shut. “The cavalry’s arriving. Security guard maybe, I don’t know. We need to get out of here.”_

_“Need ten seconds,” Dean said, scooping money by the armful into the bag. His gloves kissed the metal tray at the bottom of the safe, grabbing the last bundle. Adam held the bag open, then closed the zipper over the bulging, heavy bulk of it._

_“All right, let’s go,” Sam said, grabbing Dean by the arm and pulling him to his feet. “Heads up: system’s down, the front doors might be locked. Go!”_

_Adam ran out first, Sam behind him. Dean had the bag, and it was a dead weight, it hit his thighs, made him grunt and struggle. The strap was cutting into his shoulder._

_“Sam!” Dean called, exiting the layered vaults and running out into the main marble foyer. “Sam, it’s too heavy―”_

_There was a flashlight flickering through glass doors at the side of the foyer, Dean almost strained his neck turning to look._

_Sam took the bag, then took Dean’s hand. “Hurry up!”_

_Dean winced, buckling under the weakness his thigh caused him, a tendon pulled in his leg. “Fuck.”_

_Adam, young and sprightly, ran ahead and started unlocking the door with Dean’s digital kit. It took him mere seconds, sending a fast bleep through the security system which set the alarms off, the horrendous screeching filling Dean’s head again._

_Sam and Dean were still twenty feet away from the door, and Dean was limping like a lame dog._

_“Come_ on _!” Adam yelped from the doors. “Behind you!”_

_“Stop right there, boys, or I shoot,” came a male voice, sharp and vicious. Of all the things Dean noticed in that moment, he noticed that the threat came in a British accent._

_But neither Dean nor Sam stopped, turned around, or obeyed the instruction in any way at all._

_A gunshot blasted through the marble chamber, and it came as a thundercrack, a lightning shard of pain through Dean’s body. His face hit the floor jaw-first, his wrist immediately broken as it caught under his falling body. He felt a tremendous, unbelievable tear in his back, something hard and solid pressed to his right shoulder bone. It was inside him; it was hot and it was metallic, and it broke his body in an instant._

_“Dean!”_

_Dean felt arms on his shoulders, then hands - strong hands; his brother’s hands. Sam._

_“Take this!” Sam barked, and Dean saw the moonlit shadow of Adam taking the heavy bag. Then, to Dean, Sam breathed, “Come on, Dean, come on. Getting us out of here.”_

_Dean found himself dragged down marble steps, his feet barely working. His boots tripped and his body bolted through with pain, from his legs, from his arm, from his back. He was bleeding, he could smell the red tang, like copper. He could feel the wet warmth under his shirt, soaking his leather jacket from the inside._

_“Stay where you are!” came his assailant’s voice, still echoing loud: the man remained in the building, while the Winchester thieves stumbled outside, caught up in a windy Chicago night._

_Sam nearly carried Dean to the car. The black shape of it rested on the street, a shadow in an expanse of other shadows. Alarm lights made her glossy paint gleam like flames across her gilded edges, and she shivered with the heavy purr of her already-running engine._

_“Adam, open the door!” Sam shouted ahead, and Dean, through his bleary, darkening eyes, saw the door to the car’s back seat fly open._

_Sam bundled Dean inside, and Dean fell, sprawling, bleeding. He was losing himself to the pain; Sam had his life in his hands now. Dean vaguely heard the sound of more gunshots, loud bumps on the car’s sides, but those sounds blurred with the sound of sirens, of alarms, of the gruff voice of John Winchester from the driver’s seat, “Useless piece of shit, Dean, fucked up again.”_

_The car drove, the Winchester family taking off like one angry bat out of hell, and Dean bled. Sam’s hands turned him over, and Sam’s hands used Dean’s dainty metal lockpicking tools to pull the bullet out. Sam’s hands bandaged him, Sam’s hands stroked his blood-streaked face to soothe him._

_“Hang in there, Dean,” Sam said, speaking over John’s ongoing complaints, endless quips and attacks on Dean, things Dean knew were all true. “Hang on tight, Dean, you’ll be okay.”_

✿

The _feeling_ was what woke Dean up. It was the same as every morning, familiar pressure between his legs. Thick - still dry, but waiting for a touch, a touch that would make the first dot of liquid spill free.

The awareness of his morning wood passed by, and he slid upward into conscious thought.

There came thoughts of warmth, of how a satin pillow below him made his face hot, made his skin feel like it was stuck to it. He sensed the breath on the back of his neck, hands around his waist.

Castiel, the smell of him. Dean could smell his shampoo, his cologne, his antiperspirant, his dandruff, his sweat, the washing detergent he used; he could smell the skin pressed close to him, could smell his breath, which miraculously still smelled like toothpaste.

Dean had his own toothbrush here. He _belonged_ here.

Dean could feel Castiel’s heartbeat, slow and steady, pressed against Dean’s back. He was still asleep.

And Dean took a chance to guess, that even though Castiel was still asleep, he too had a _feeling_. Dean could feel it resting between his thighs, its tip pushed into the very edge of the lace panties he still wore. Castiel had slept in his boxers, and they were straining over his erection.

Dean lounged in this serenity. The morning sun had not yet entered the skylight; he could feel the mist across the city without needing to see it or smell it. He could sense the quality of the light; the heavens were pinked by the rising sun, mist clearing.

Seven, maybe eight o’clock in the morning. They’d slept a long time, tired out by everything.

Dean groaned slowly, bones rolling as he descended a hand towards his legs, fingertips dipping into his navel as he went. He grasped himself through his panties, still basking in the beauty they contained for him. This pair would forever remind him of last night: held on Castiel’s lap, whispered the things Dean longed to hear but had never before been told.

Nobody.

_Nobody_ had ever told him he was beautiful and meant it truly.

He smiled into his pillow at the recollection of hearing Castiel say it. He could have _cried_ then, wept for the cravings he no longer had to bear with. His moment of weakness had been shared by another, and it had made them both stronger. Outside forces, fate, whatever Cas wanted to call it - nothing had any bearing on how Dean felt. This was _his_ time, his feeling. His beauty.

Castiel breathed in deeply, warm air gusting out from where the blanket moved, tickling the edges of Dean’s hair.

In his deepest voice yet, Castiel spoke into Dean’s ear. “Morning.”

Dean pushed his cock into his own hand, eyes rolling with pleasure under his closed lids. His reply of “Hey, Cas,” came out as more of an elongated purr. Contentment and satisfaction filled him before the game had even begun. He was drowsy, lazy, late for work - and he couldn’t care less.

Castiel put his lips against Dean’s tattoo, nose sinking into his muscle. “Did you sleep well?”

Dean smiled, thrusting his hips into his hand, into the mattress. “Uh-huh.”

Castiel lay half on top of him, erection at an angle, held down by his tight boxers. He rolled his hips, and Dean felt the weight of him outline the shape of his cock against Dean’s buttock. He could feel the rim of Cas’ frenulum, mostly hard. As he sank into Dean again, beginning to hump him, Dean felt him hardening further.

The bed creaked slowly, adjusting to their gradual, dozy sway.

Castiel kissed Dean’s shoulder again. Then again. Dean felt his eyelashes drag on his skin, hands rubbing up and down, up and down. “What did you dream about?”

Dean moaned, lips pulling into a smile.

Another of the things he’d once joked about with Castiel. _Tell me about your dreams_.

“Got eaten by a caramel sundae,” Dean replied. “Or walked a dog on a rainbow, I can’t remember.”

He had dreamt nothing of the sort - he’d had a nightmare: a brutal, all-too-real flashback to another time - but Castiel didn’t have to know that.

Castiel chuckled, low and amused. “I heard you say my name while you slept.”

Dean turned over, surprised. He met Castiel’s eye, automatically smiling as he saw that fantastic dark blue. That blue was the eye colour of people in romance novels, not people in reality. “What did I say about you?”

Castiel smooched at Dean’s jaw, sighing and grunting against his throat. He set his warm, tender hands around Dean’s head, kissing between words; “I have no... fucking... idea.”

Dean chuckled, eyes shut once more. He rubbed his panties against Castiel’s thigh, a hand pushing downward on Cas’ buttock so he had some purchase. Castiel’s cock rested in the dip between Dean’s thigh and his hip bone, and Dean could feel the first spot of pre-come wetting the fabric. It was warm, and he slid his free hand between their bodies so he could touch it.

Castiel moaned, rumbling and deep like a whale underwater, pleased at the rippling touch Dean gave his cock through the damp cloth. Dean’s fingertip found his slit, rubbing the fabric against it. He flicked another tiny smile as he felt a burst of more liquid push through the fibres, wetting his fingers enough to make them noticeably slick.

He pulled his fingers away, feeling cruel as Castiel made a wretched noise. But Dean kept going, pulling his hand so his fingers were curled, relaxed over his face. He could smell Castiel’s emissions on his skin, and he sank a single digit into his mouth, groaning as the salt tang of it was sucked away by his tongue, every bud affording his fingertip the tiniest sensation.

Cracking his eyes open a few millimetres, Dean set his attention on Castiel’s watchful eye. “Want some?” he asked, a dirty smirk crawling over his lips.

Castiel hesitated, then opened his mouth, willing.

Dean set the second wet finger between Castiel’s lips, moaning into his own closed mouth as Castiel shut his eyes, sucked him, pulling that finger in over his tongue, deep enough that Dean’s loose fist rested on Castiel’s scruffy chin. Castiel sucked on Dean’s finger like he would for his cock; Dean made a soft, wanton sound, relishing how it felt, how Castiel looked when he sucked.

Castiel opened his eyes very slightly, pouting to let Dean’s finger slide free, cooling as it met the air. His mouth had been deliciously warm, tongue so supple. Dean’s finger felt clammy now, he wanted it back inside.

“Hey... Cas?”

“Hm?”

Dean licked his lips, turning his hips upward again to get a new angle as he rubbed against Castiel’s thigh. Castiel’s erection was fading from lack of touch, but Dean had no intention to leave him unsatisfied.

“Want to fuck me?” Dean asked, playfully tilting his head on the pillow. He smiled, pleased at the question having been vocalised.

Castiel’s gaze dropped to Dean’s lips, where he sank a soft, greeting kiss. But as he rested his lips on Dean’s chin, he shook his head. “No thank you.”

Dean pursed his lips, sighing as Castiel rested their foreheads together, a thumb rubbing each side of Dean’s head. “It feels good, I promise,” Dean assured him.

“No, I really don’t want to.”

Dean opened his eyes fully, blinking up at the closed eyes of Castiel, watching that frown cover his face again. Dean had almost forgotten how often he wore that frown. Last night he’d barely seen it at all.

“Maybe this isn’t the best time to ask... but... why?”

Castiel swallowed, grabbing Dean and rolling them over, so Dean was atop Castiel, their thighs between each other. Dean’s cockhead escaped the confines of his panties, and dribbled a strand of pre-come against Castiel’s belly.

Castiel lay still, staring up at Dean. The frown was gone, but he wore a mask of fatigue. “It was never about condoms.”

Dean grinned, smacking a kiss to Castiel’s chest, curling over him. “Figured. If you were ever going to impregnate Daphne, there wouldn’t exactly be a need for condoms. It never made sense before. Now it does. Kind of.”

He kissed Castiel’s heart, then kissed him once more, hoping he would forget the mention of Daphne. Her name had no place in a bed she would never lie in.

Castiel rucked his fingers through Dean’s hair, bristling it forward, then back. Dean kissed his chest and his nipples as Castiel began to speak. “I don’t like that form of sex. The penetration, the way it’s... associated.”

“With what? AIDS?”

Castiel paused, then shook his head. “With... dominance?”

Dean looked up, chin resting on Castiel’s sternum. Castiel couldn’t meet his eye from this angle, so he had turned his head away. His throat tightened as he swallowed; Dean’s eye tracked the movement.

“I thought you said you liked being on top.”

Castiel’s smile was brief. “I lied.”

Dean kissed his Adam’s apple, feeling it shift under his lips. “So...?”

“I don’t want dominance, Dean,” Castiel whispered. Dean slid up his body and lay beside him, letting Castiel roll against him, a leg slung over Dean’s hip to haul him close. “I want a partnership. A total equality.”

“You putting your dick in me doesn’t change anything.”

Castiel shook his head, moving in to make out with Dean, rolling their mouths together, hands resting in the dip under Dean’s skull. Tongues made tentative contact, then devoured the spaces that separated them, seduction in their heat and wetness.

They stopped breathing properly for a while, surging to complete kisses that had barely begun; five kisses at once, roped together by touching lips, sweeping, slick tongues.

Finally Castiel pulled away, tugging on Dean’s lower lip with his teeth. He nuzzled Dean’s cheek as he shook his head. “I want to lead. Not dominate.”

“What if I want to... what’s the word - submit? To you? On my knees, tied up, wet and dripping with your―”

“That’s a completely different matter,” Castiel said. He slid a hand fast under the blanket, fingers slipping into Dean’s panties and making him yelp, squeezing his erection in his hand. Dean’s breath shook, legs parting, one knee making a tent with the blanket. “You told me you wear lingerie... and that it wasn’t a kinky thing.”

“If you keep doing that it will be,” Dean groaned, wailing as he exhaled, hips making minute movements. He felt like his whole being was held in Castiel’s hand, where his palm was wrinkling his foreskin. Castiel’s fingertips were sinking into the deep, loose skin around Dean’s base, pushing into his scrotum. All his energy was contained, captured there, in the hand beneath the lacy fabric Dean wore to feel pretty.

Castiel flicked at Dean’s earlobe with his tongue. “I don’t think my enjoyment of you being desperate for me is a kink. It’s instinct, but it’s also irrelevant.”

“Then―?”

“I see you, Dean, I see you give so much to the people you love, and I want to offer myself as your equal. Someone who’ll give just as much. Balance every gift you ever gave. If you are doing some sort of penance for your sins, I want to carry you to the end.”

“There is no end,” Dean said, knowing there was no point denying, since Castiel had seen through him. Caring for his family was who Dean _was_ , but he couldn’t lie to say the sheer force he put into it wasn’t to make up for the brother he lost, the family who died on his watch. “I can’t make up for it. I’m doing this forever.”

Castiel kissed him, groaning, pulsing his body against Dean’s. “Then I―” He set a heavy bite to Dean’s jaw, a grunt, a fucking _thrust_ , “―will do this forever. This is my way of life. It’s not a kink, Dean. Caring for you.” He grabbed Dean by the hips, rolled his body high over him, then pulled Dean’s legs apart and began to fuck down onto him, cock against cock, material caught in the grind. Dean whimpered, called out a blare of broken sound.

Castiel gritted his teeth, snarling down at Dean; he thumped against him, rough and fast and unhindered - then it fell away, and he crumbled against him, became a kitten above him, putting the tiniest, softest kisses to his neck. Moaning, cooing noises escaped the back of his throat, and he gently rocked against Dean’s parted legs.

“This, Dean,” he said, tender, “ _this_ is how I will dominate you. I don’t need to be inside you to fill you. If you want to be fucked, I will use my fingers, or my tongue. I will use toys, anything you like. But I will not offer you penetration until you no longer see it as a goal. It is not the ultimate sex, Dean. It’s foreplay, just like everything else.”

“If this is all foreplay,” Dean said, wrapping his legs around Castiel, locking them at the ankle as soon as the blanket fell off them, “then what comes at the end?”

Castiel kissed his mouth, and they sank together until Dean moaned at the way he felt; safe, encapsulated, perfect - then they pulled away to breathe.

Castiel ground down against Dean, fingers pulling his panties down a bit more so their skin pressed flush together, raw and dragging. “There is no end goal.”

“Foreplay forever?” Dean grinned, quirking an eyebrow. “You sound like an idiot right now, just so you know.”

Castiel laughed, his outburst tickling Dean’s taut nipple. “That’s because it’s all bullshit. I’m making this speech up as I go,” he grinned, eyes crinkled at the sides. “It’s nothing but excuses.”

He paused for a while, and the grin faded, his forward-jutting rhythm becoming slow.

“What?” Dean asked, wondering why Castiel suddenly seemed so subdued.

Castiel finally licked his lips and began to speak. “When I was younger, I was told too many times that anal sex was the only way it would be fun. But it hurt. It always hurt.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “So... wait, you _didn’t_ lie when you said you liked being on top―?”

“I have been on top before. And I have been underneath before. But I have never put a condom on another man.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You caught something.”

Castiel swallowed, lowering his head, breath caught as he nodded. “I should have told you earlier,” he said, his voice breaking, his arms folding around Dean to pull him closer. “You keep putting things in your mouth, I didn’t know how to stop you, my eyes were barely open―”

Dean hushed him, stroking his back, whispering “Shh-shh-shh,” kissing his temple. “Cas, it’s okay. It’s okay, I can deal with it. I can deal with it.” He took a deep, deep breath, staring out of the skylight at the pale blue beyond. “We can deal with it together.”

Castiel shook his head, fingers shaking and curling against Dean. “I should have told you. I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry.”

He was crying.

Dean shut his eyes, wrapping his arms around Castiel. His lips turned up in a sad little smile. “Cas, it’s okay. You have literally nothing to worry about.”

Castiel lifted his head, all watery eyes and a gaping downward-turned mouth. “Wh...?”

Dean kissed his forehead. “Me too.”

Castiel inhaled, lifting himself further, the frown returning. Dean could see him putting it all together. “You have it?”

Dean nodded. He removed one arm from Castiel’s shoulders to touch his hand to the scar on his own bicep. “They said I was marked. That they’d - kill me eventually. It took me a few weeks... but I found out what they meant. I thought it was just...” he gulped, “blood poisoning, at first.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Dean solemnly shook his head. “It wasn’t.”

Castiel stared for a little while, and Dean stared back.

There were some bonds made in the trenches, men buried together under rains of bullets. Some bonds were made when angels pulled bad men out of Hell. And some bonds were made in flower shops, where it was quiet and peaceful. But those kinds of bonds were not softer, not weaker; they were simply soldiers fighting a different war.

Castiel shuddered, closed his eyes, and lay against Dean, their bodies together, legs entwined. Their hands met, and Dean watched their fingers separate each other, locking down, so tightly that his bones felt like were bending.

They should have told each other earlier. Dean knew they’d both been fucking _idiots_ not to say a word between them about this. He held Castiel in his arms now, the lustful heat in their bodies dissipating, and he thought about how many times he could have told Castiel.

He only needed to have said the words - _Cas, I have HIV_ \- and they could have been here much sooner, holding each other in this raw, somewhat comforting solidarity. _Dean, I have it too._

Dean wouldn’t ask how long Castiel had left. They both lived in a world where they could have the medicine they needed; it was possible for them to live near-normal lives, with continued treatment.

The lovemaking mood was long gone now; instead, Dean closed his eyes, thoughts drifting back.

At one time, he’d had to steal his medicine. For a while, the government provided it. And now he earned it. When his money didn’t go towards the house, or to Sammy and Sarah, Dean’s money went on himself.

Sometimes he wondered if he was still here because he was worth something to the world, or because Sammy needed him. But he’d known for many years that Sam never needed him; Dean’s little brother was complete on his own. Yet, Dean was still his extension. Sam’s extra half, the same way Sarah was.

Dean felt like he had been kidding himself when he said he was hanging on for Sam.

Now, he wasn’t. He smiled against Castiel’s forehead, holding back a silent sob.

Now, he was hanging on for all the reasons he could ever imagine. For Sarah’s efforts in keeping him going, for Benny’s efforts in keeping him good, for Charlie’s efforts in keeping him happy, for Gabriel’s efforts in doing whatever the hell he did. For Bobby, who raised them - Dean blessed him, if the old man was even still alive.

Yes, he was hanging on for Sammy too - for everything.

And for Cas. Because he’d _given_ Dean things. Things Dean could only take for himself.

And that was the point.

Dean loved Castiel because he made him love himself. Dean would hang on for him. They were in this together, and from now on, they would need each other more than ever.


	19. A Shower Cubicle Built For Two

Castiel could see Dean was finding it hard not to laugh - but that was because Castiel was so intent on tickling him. Dean folded over his thighs, gasping for air as he rested a hand flat against the black bathroom tiles. Castiel ran smothering kisses up Dean’s lower back, making _mmh, mmh, mmh_ noises. He loved it, he loved Dean’s convulsions. Dean giggled and let him keep going.

Castiel had already started the shower, and it was running hot, but neither of them were anywhere near it. Dean struggled his way across the tiny ensuite, grasping at Castiel’s hands as he skimmed over Dean’s tummy with his nimble fingers, determined to make Dean squirm.

At last Castiel felt the steam dampening his shoulder, and Dean turned around, already braced for the two seconds Castiel took to inundate Dean’s freckled shoulders with kisses. Dean didn’t laugh this time, but sighed, indulging in how it felt to be cherished like this.

Dean still wore his glasses, adamant he wanted to see everything. Castiel had nothing to be self-conscious about any more; Dean had already seen everything. He _knew_ everything.

Castiel had no secrets from this man.

They leaned back into the shower spray, and Dean groaned at the feel of it, sleek, soft needles of water cascading down his back.

“It’s good, isn’t it,” Castiel murmured, slinging a hand closer to tug on Dean’s erection. He nuzzled his now-wet face against Dean’s ear, breathing his scent as his skin turned from matte to shiny. “The water doesn’t get cold unless I tell it to.”

Dean let out a rumble from the back of his throat, sliding to rest his back against the shower wall behind him. Wide black tiles surrounded them; they were blocked in on three sides, all but the open side where they entered the shower. The silver arm above poured its rain down in the centre, falling perfectly between both their bodies.

This shower was built for two people, and knowing that, Castiel was glad he finally had the right person to share it with.

Dean had gotten hard as a rock under Castiel’s ministrations. Castiel turned his head down to watch the hot water spindle into rivulets, leaping in endless strands from his fingers where his fist curled around Dean’s cock.

Castiel pulled on the length, watching Dean’s foreskin bunch around the head. With his cock tilted towards Castiel, Dean’s slit was still visible even when it was surrounded by wrinkled wet skin - a central dark line, no more than a centimetre long. Castiel slid his thumb through the middle of it, gyrating his hips into the shower stream as Dean’s reactive moan of pleasure echoed.

Dean set his sopping wet hair against Castiel’s forehead, another soft moan coming from his mouth. “When I’m done, I’m gonna jizz all over you,” he said to Castiel, following his words with another groan. “Fuck.”

“You want to mark me?” Castiel asked, rolling a grin against Dean’s lips. “Then mark me, you don’t have to wait until you’re done.”

Dean’s crumbled vocalisation vibrated against Castiel’s jaw, and Castiel revelled in the curled hands Dean kept held against his head, massaging away his cares.

“What’re you good with?” Dean asked, licking Castiel’s thick-bristled face. “You okay with hickeys?”

“Below my neckline,” Castiel nodded. “Nowhere Daphne would see.”

Dean bit Castiel’s collarbone, then slowly sank to his knees, his hard cock slipping out of Castiel’s grip. The shower pummeled Dean’s hair with its hiss, and Castiel blinked hard to clear away the diamonds on his eyelashes, wanting to see Dean’s mouth do what it would.

Dean began to suck on Castiel’s hip bone, mouth open wide, rude smacking sounds loud in the small space. Lights from the ceiling outside the shower made his face glisten with gems, spectacular.

Castiel pulled on Dean’s wet hair. Ropes, dripping wet. Castiel’s breath was shivering, but his hand was steady. With Dean at his feet, he was powerful.

Dean’s tongue did sinful things. Once he’d left three red lovebites in a row, descending the V-cut of Castiel’s hips, he set his smooth, reddened lips against Castiel’s cock. He lapped away every trace of pre-come, swallowed it, then sucked on Castiel’s cockhead to bring forward some more.

He had nothing to fear. They had nothing to protect each other from, they could taste anything from each other and couldn’t become poisoned by it. They already had the worst of it, and they were the same. Of course, sharing with each other like this was a sure-fire way to make it worse, but at this point, Castiel didn’t think either of them cared.

If getting sicker came with the bonus of Dean’s lips on him, around him, Castiel considered that he would die happy.

Feeling Dean’s mouth around his cock again, Castiel’s head fell back and he moaned like an animal into the falling water. Dean’s mouth was alive, his tongue eager to milk him, his lips driven by hunger, desire to give Castiel his high, desire for Dean to take away pleasure of his own.

Castiel fucked into his mouth, both hands clasped around Dean’s skull, hips moving to fill him. Dean’s hands stroked Castiel’s hips, a thumb playing on the fresh bruise; he breathed hard, like a racehorse, snorting through his nose, eyes shut. He wore a frown of concentration, focusing on how he breathed, on his rhythm.

Castiel didn’t let him pause to swallow, smirked as he saw Dean drooling, trails of saliva washed away by the shower. Dean liked it wet, but Castiel had a feeling he was getting far more than he bargained for.

Castiel had fantasised about this. About holding Dean still, allowed to take whatever he wanted. But this? This was better. Dean was moaning, his cock straining hard, _leaking_. He was hugely turned on by this, maybe even more than Castiel was.

Castiel wondered how long Dean had wanted this. To be used like this, and _not_ hurt. Not cut or spat on by someone, not left behind when they were done with him.

Dean finally lost his rhythm, and Castiel saw his flicker of panic, tongue squelching, jaw shaking, eyelids giving a fast flicker. Castiel let go immediately, and Dean pulled away, curling over the black tiles on the floor, breathing harshly.

Castiel touched Dean’s head, smiling when Dean looked up at him, the green in his eyes swallowed by darkness, his lips red and puffy, hand marks on the side of his face where Castiel had held him. Dean was grinning, still panting, still kneeling.

“Did you like that?”

Dean stood up, legs trembling until Castiel held his hips, rubbing to soothe him. “Yeah... _ah!_ \- yeah.” Dean nodded. “Mm...” He leaned in, mouth swelteringly hot as he consumed Castiel’s lips between his own, tongue slipping inside, fatter than before: swollen by how hard he’d been sucking. Dean broke the kiss to pull on his own cock, eyes down to watch his length disappear between his fingers. “Fuckin’ love that,” he muttered.

Castiel caught his chin with his fingers, tipping Dean’s lips up to meet his again. He licked his teeth, then breathed out into his open mouth. “Tell me exactly what you loved. And what you felt.”

“You taking notes?”

Castiel grinned, nodding so their heads rocked together. “I’m studying you. My favourite subject.”

“Well, Teach,” Dean laughed, fingering Castiel’s frenulum, “You know that bit when you started fucking my face?”

Castiel murmured a hum against Dean’s ear, licking him. “Yes.”

“I like that moment. Knowing what you’re gonna do, being okay with it, but having the decision out of my hands.” Dean swallowed, panting slowly now, his warm breath on Castiel’s shoulder joining the shower splatter.

“Not always, though,” Dean added. “In real life I want to make the big decisions. But when it’s you ‘n me―”

“It’s a partnership,” Castiel finished, lifting up Dean’s glasses so he could kiss his closed eyes, one after the other. His wet eyelashes were cool against Castiel’s lower lip. “Always tell me, Dean.” He replaced Dean’s glasses on the bridge of his nose, then began to rub his cock against Dean’s, water and leftover saliva making them slide easily. “Always tell me you’ll be okay beforehand. Then I know I won’t hurt you.”

Dean nodded, smiling against Castiel’s skin as they both kept their eyes down, watching their members make slippery, uncontrolled contact.

Castiel wrapped a hand around them both, squeezing them together. Dean barked out a reversed moan, sharp and gaspy, hands becoming vice-like against Castiel’s shoulders.

Dean laughed suddenly, head turned to the side. The sound echoed, and Castiel watched his eyes crinkle deeply, closing.

“What’s funny?” Castiel asked.

Dean chuckled, eyes flicking to the ceiling, then to Castiel, pushing his face into the shower stream to re-soak his hair. “I’m _so_ fucking late for work,” he said. Then he shook his head like a dog, sending sparkles of water in every direction.

Castiel took Dean’s buttocks in each hand, pulling him in close so he could thrust hard against him. Dean rolled his arms around Castiel’s lower back, and for a moment Castiel struggled to keep his balance - but Dean shot out a hand, and steadied them both against the nearest wall.

His glasses frames pressed into Castiel’s face as Castiel smooched his cheek, but neither of them changed a thing. Castiel’s tongue poked out to taste the water on Dean’s skin, loving the sweetness, the prickle of Dean’s overnight stubble.

Last night and this morning had been intense.

Their time together had been emotionally draining, yet replenishing in precisely the same way. Castiel had never said the word ‘love’ so many times in one night before. And never had he meant it the way he did when he said it to Dean.

Castiel smiled as he thought about it; memories of Dean made him equally as happy as his current presence did. Dean was blossom in sunshine, the season of spring. Castiel had been winter for so long. Now his flowers could unravel their petals and embrace the light.

Castiel kissed his way down Dean’s body, beginning with his eyes again, his nose, his lips.

Then to his throat, making Dean moan as he sucked the nub of his Adam’s apple.

To his collarbone, where he left a bite mark, half on purpose. He took a moment to admire it, three grooves from his teeth denting the skin. Dean fingered the dents, lips parted, glasses dotted with patches of steam and water droplets. He wore a tiny smile; enjoying Castiel’s possession.

Castiel suckled on Dean’s nipples, one after the other. He made both of them stand to attention, made them plucky and sore, messy splotches of reddened skin around them. All of these marks would heal within less than a few hours, but it was satisfying to see them made. Aware of the burn he still felt on his hip, Castiel could assume Dean was corrupt with lust upon having the most sensitive parts of his torso toyed with. He had momentarily become Castiel’s plaything, marked skin transformed into the trinkets of a fun game.

Castiel licked a fresh cross over the X on Dean’s bicep. He felt its ripped and healing ridges under his shivering muscle, felt the way Dean’s skin wasn’t set back together the way it was meant to be. A death sentence was written upon his skin, and Castiel wished he could lick it away. And oh, how he tried, but Dean complained and pulled him off.

“Not there,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Don’t bother with there. I don’t want to think about it.”

Castiel nodded, nosing a trail down Dean’s flat, trickling wet stomach. It was empty inside, he could almost dip into its hollow, and he looked forward to offering Dean breakfast later. He kissed downwards, lips sensing every tiny hair on Dean’s smooth skin.

He tongued Dean’s navel, resting his weight on his knees, ignoring the hardness of the tiles under his bones. His back hunched, his muzzle pressed to Dean’s belly. He moaned into him, allowing a nibble of Dean’s tummy pudge. Castiel grinned at the way the small amount of fat there shifted under his teeth, so delicate; Dean would feel it, and Castiel thought should be proud of that, the wealth his body had afforded him since last week.

Last week Dean had existed as a destruction of a body, no fat, nothing but shadows and smoke. Now he smelled like sweat and dirt and leather, and not a trace of whiskey lingered on his skin.

Castiel took satisfaction in that, in the meaty hips he could sink his fingers into as he began to suck on Dean’s cock. Thickness throbbed against his tongue, heavy with blood, with human want. A furious pounding rested in Castiel’s head: his own heartbeat, echoed by Dean’s through his member, pressed to the back of Castiel’s throat.

Dean was healthy again, thanks to Castiel. It was not all his doing; in fact, he still felt like he’d done nothing but lie to him. The secrets had fallen away now, but initially, all it had taken was a word to get Dean to heal. _Come_. And Castiel had him.

He’d fixed him. The word Castiel mouthed against Dean’s body now, that was the word that had saved him. _Love_.

And there was one other word, one word that Dean hungered for the same way he hungered for food, for sex, for water to quench his thirst. Something he needed like anyone else in the world did. Something he thought he’d never had, but was simply never _told_ that he had all along. _Beautiful_.

Dean looked down at Castiel with awe in his gaze, eyebrows raised, a hand scooting back through his water-darkened hair so he could properly see Castiel. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true,” Castiel nodded, whispering in the gap between Dean’s thigh and his cock. Tongue slid in there, made Dean grunt and wriggle his feet further apart. Castiel put a finger between his legs, edged it upward until his fingertips were resting on the puckered, totally relaxed hole between Dean’s buttocks. “It has always been true.”

Dean stroked Castiel’s hair, and Castiel smiled as two of his fingers breached the muscle of Dean’s anus. Dean’s toes curled on the tiles, and he bit his lower lip, but beyond that, he gave no drastic reaction.

Castiel slowly, _slowly_ stood back up, hand still locked under Dean’s parted legs. As he stood completely, he pushed his fingers deeper.

“ _Oh_ , that’s good.” Dean shut his eyes and sighed, consciously opening the muscle further to give Castiel easier entrance. Castiel rested his lips on Dean’s hot shoulder, smiling. He could feel Dean toying with his fingers using his inner muscles alone, sucking him in, pushing him out. He was fucking himself on Castiel’s fingers, not even moving his hips.

“You’ve done this before,” Castiel muttered, grinning against Dean. “You like playing with this part of you?”

“Yea-huh,” Dean affirmed, starting to bounce a little bit on his feet, taking Castiel deeper. “In the shower. I guess it got to the point where I stand under a shower spray and my butt relaxes automatically. It was real easy for you to get in, huh.”

“It was.”

Dean gyrated his hips, and Castiel took a fast moment to remove his fingers, then turn his arm around Dean’s back and replace them inside him, this time from behind rather than from between Dean’s legs.

Dean dragged in a long, humid breath, then let it go; airy curls drifted over Castiel’s shoulder, joining the water that still flowed down his back. “Cas, find my prostate. I wanna come.”

Castiel felt Dean’s hand shifting, pulling on himself. Castiel chuckled. “Touch me, too, you selfish prick.”

Dean hummed a laugh, needing no further prompting before he took Castiel’s cock in hand as well, pumping them in one hand until they both returned to full stiffness. Dean took a little longer to revive his straining erection, since everything in him was very much focused on what Castiel was doing at his rear.

Castiel was decent enough at finding his own gland, but he’d had years of practise and an easier angle than this. His fingers were wrinkling, not just from the water, but from being inside Dean. Dean was slick and tight - yes, he was clenching, but he was very relaxed. Castiel’s digits could slide in and out of him without much effort at all; Dean would open for him, gaping for more whenever Castiel’s second finger slipped free.

Castiel turned his hand, his wrist, held his arm at an awkward angle, just so he could press a fingertip to Dean’s prostate. Dean shuddered as Castiel found it the first time, giving a single vocal note of triumph.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean murmured, kissing Castiel’s shoulder, wet. “C’mon, I’m ready.”

Castiel was distracted by the tightness of Dean’s hand around their cocks; Dean was indeed ready to come, he was pumping them both, fast and eager, his grip like he was trying to strangle them somehow. Castiel breathed hard, grunting and pushing his hips forward - he realised he too was heading for his peak, but he wanted Dean to come first.

“Let go of me,” Castiel said to Dean. “You first.”

Dean let go, meeting Castiel’s eye before he kissed him. “Finish me off then.”

Castiel dropped to his knees, pulling out his fingers and returning them underneath Dean’s parted legs. Dean took another step outwards, feet firm on the tiles, hot water pouring relentlessly all around him. Castiel slipped his fingers back inside, licking his lips, enjoying that heat and that delicious tightness.

Dean’s hand was jerking over his cockhead, no longer bothering to touch his whole length. His breath had hastened, breathing laboured, lips apart, eyes mostly closed. His glasses had steamed up.

“One day I will sink inside you,” Castiel said, looking up at Dean. “With my penis. After I have stretched you with my fingers. I will fuck you, and I will make you cry out for me, Dean. You’ll be desperate.”

“Wet,” Dean added, gulping, gasping. “Wet for you.”

“And I will come inside you.” Castiel smirked, putting a kiss on Dean’s jacking hand, nose sliding against his skin as Dean shifted it. “I will fill you up, Dean. Put everything inside you.” He kissed his hip bones, one, two, head ducking around Dean’s cock. “And I will tell you I love you, and I will kiss you. Every part of you.” He rubbed at Dean’s prostate, hard, and didn’t stop moving his finger. “Every... single...” He grinned, open mouth sinking teeth into the skin of Dean’s belly. “...beautiful part of you.”

Dean ejaculated over Castiel’s face. Heat spilled down his ear, trickling onto his shoulder. Even though the roar of the shower descended around him, Castiel _heard_ it, the soft squirt, the tiny, tiny splashes as Dean’s orgasm hit his skin.

Castiel laughed against Dean’s hip, tonguing the pokey bone. Slowly, he slid his fingers out of Dean, and wiped them clean against his own thigh, where the shower splashed away the body warmth.

Dean groaned quietly, puffing out a breath. Having forced out the last of his come, Dean shook the locked shape of his hand, then rested it gently in Castiel's hair. Castiel looked up at him, smiling. Dean grinned back. “Good boy,” Dean said.

Castiel breathed out a wide smile. He couldn’t help the long groan that came out with it, and he shut his eyes, body brewing a heat under its surface. “Yes... oh, yes...”

Dean stroked the side of his face, smearing his come across Castiel’s cheek. “You like that.”

Castiel nodded, eyes still closed. “Oh, I do.”

The surges under his skin simmered down, and he flicked his eyes up to Dean, smiling again when he saw him peering down, affection in his eyes.

Castiel kissed the hand that strayed beside his mouth. _Thank you_.

Slowly, he stood up. He grumbled as he saw that the skin of his knees showed two red circles where he’d been kneeling. They ached, but the shower washed away that ache, as it did for all other worries and pains.

Dean sighed, running his face into the falling water to warm up his glasses lenses, so they wouldn’t haze with steam quite so much. He offered Castiel a quick smirk, then his face twitched away. “Uh, if I were you, don’t look down for a minute.”

“What? Why―?” Castiel looked down, then grimaced and looked away, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Dean, you are disgusting. This is a shower, not a urinal.”

“I’m practical,” Dean said. “I’ve needed to go for like an hour.”

“Well, so have I, but I’m polite enough to wait,” Castiel snapped, with no real force behind his words. He was smiling anyway, he didn’t much care. He used the time Dean was distracted to wash away the stickiness that had since settled into his hair, palming away every trace of Dean’s come.

Dean finally sighed in relief, washing himself down under the showerhead. Castiel then set his hands on Dean, rubbing his sides up and down, exploring his skin.

Dean purred, nuzzling his face against Castiel’s as he moved in to kiss him. “How would you rather I made you come?” Dean asked, fingertips dallying on the tip of Castiel’s erection. “Fingers inside? Suck you off? Or just hands?”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t mind. You choose.”

Dean hummed a curious note, head tilting as he thought. He pushed his thumb into the lovebites he’d left earlier, joining them up with a temporary bridge that faded as soon as he lifted his thumb.

“How about like you did,” Dean said, reaching to turn off the shower. It splattered into silence, leaving naught but a _drip-drip-drip_.

Dean smirked. “You whack off until you come, and I kneel down waiting for you to - heh, paint me, or... Yeah. Whatever.” He licked his lips with his thick tongue, meeting Castiel’s eye. Dean’s irises were so dark behind his glass lenses, lust blazing in his gaze. “Want you to come on me,” he said. He licked his lips a second time, and Castiel saw his blush. Dean’s little grin quirked upward. His gaze shot down then back up, acting shy. “Jizz on me.”

Castiel smiled. “I understood you the first time.”

Dean leaned in to smack a kiss against Castiel’s mouth, then he trailed his lips down his chest, leaving behind a line of sparkly stars. At least, stars were what those kisses felt like to Castiel.

Dean’s knees made a thump as they landed gently onto the tiles, and he wriggled to settle his weight. The shower still dripped steadfastly, but other than that, Castiel only heard silence, and both his and Dean’s breath.

Dean sucked Castiel’s cock for a minute, inconsequentially; it was more of a comforting gesture than a gambit move towards Castiel’s orgasm, but it was nonetheless enjoyable. A relaxing experience. Warm and soft. The sounds of Dean’s mouth were rhythmic, breathy moans on every deep inward stroke.

Dean eventually pulled his lips away, swallowing and wiping the strands of saliva away from his chin with the back of a hand. He pursed his lips and pouted, as if he was hitting reset on how his mouth usually felt when he didn’t have a cock pushing each half of his jaw apart.

He looked so handsome like that, Castiel thought. Skin flushed from the heat of the shower, from his blush. He was swollen in all the right places; he displayed such honest marks on his body. All the places Castiel had nibbled him, kissed him - those places were lit up like signs. _Castiel was here_.

Dean sank kisses to Castiel’s upper thighs, while the one hand on Castiel’s erection began a rhythm again. Dean’s hand was skilled; he varied his strokes, long, short - offering the occasional bout of sudden and shocking jiggles around Castiel’s cockhead. He would squeeze, he would stroke, and when he completed a random set of movement, he would put a kiss against the side of Castiel’s penis, _mwah_.

Castiel styled Dean’s hair into terrible shapes with his hands: looped wet strands tangled with floppy, bristled locks. Dean’s hair was longer and darker when wet; it stuck to his forehead in places, but Castiel combed it back with his fingers, meaning to keep Dean looking as attractive as possible. He looked good when his hair stuck up, when it looked like he’d either just rolled out of bed, or gone ten rounds with an armoured wildcat.

“Come for me,” Dean said, breathy against the side of Cas’ cock. “C’mon, babe.”

Castiel chuckled, stroking Dean’s hair back again. “Do you like that? Calling me that?”

Dean raised his gaze to meet Castiel’s. His eyelashes were wet, splayed outward, long and gorgeous. “Maybe,” he said, licking his lips. “I don’t know, I never called a guy that before.”

“Say it again,” Castiel said.

Dean turned his open mouth on Castiel’s member again, their eyes never breaking contact. “Babe,” he whispered, his exhale shaping on his lips, pressed to the soft skin of the organ in his hand.

Castiel bit down on his tongue, unsure if the affectionate name was amusing to him or if it turned him on. Perhaps the enjoyment could be limited to a joke, but he didn’t like when Dean said it seriously. He hummed, shaking his head. “I like it better when you say ‘good boy’. I’m not a... ‘babe’.”

“Sure you are,” Dean murmured, before filling his mouth with Castiel. His lips popped free after a moment, and he swiped Castiel’s slit with his tongue. “You’re babe _lic_ ious.”

Castiel frowned. “No, I’m not.”

Dean’s quirky grin slipped away, and he made a considerative expression instead. “You don’t like that,” he said, which seemed to Castiel like he was stating the obvious. “Whatever, it’s cool.” Dean closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Castiel’s wet pubic hair, nose pushing into it. Murmuring against his skin, Dean told him, “But I think you’re a foxy son-of-a-bitch in any case.”

Castiel rolled his hips, thrusting so he slid against the side of Dean’s face, burned by his stubble. “I see,” he sighed, smiling. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Dean moaned as he began to suck Castiel’s scrotum, inhaling the full sacs into his mouth, sucking and tugging on them. Castiel felt his tongue surrounding him, hot and thrumming.

“Mhugh,” Dean said, before his eyelashes fluttered and he spat Castiel’s balls out. He panted, hands grasping hard at the sides of Castiel’s hips.

His smile was resplendent, eyes focused so intently on Castiel that he could easily assume Dean wasn’t thinking about anything or anyone else in the universe. “Wanna tell you that you make me happy,” Dean said. “It was never so simple before. It’s real obvious now. I’m sad when you’re not there―” He kissed Castiel’s navel, his hip. “―and―” He dipped his head and sucked Castiel’s length down, bobbed his head, once, twice, sucking hard, before he nosed away, letting Castiel’s cockhead drag on his bristly throat. “And when you’re there I’m happy. Easy math.”

Castiel tilted his head. It wasn’t such a basic equation for him. He wanted to look at Dean the way Dean looked at him: concentrated, everything else shut out - but he could not. There was too much else happening in his life.

Yet, he forced himself to filter out other thoughts. Nothing would keep him from enjoying Dean like this, not now.

Dean kissed at his body, his upper thighs, hands stroking Castiel’s ass, keeping him warm, since the shower was no longer doing so. He was supple, his knees visibly reddening where he was perched upon the tiles, but despite all his shuffling about, he didn’t complain aloud.

Castiel closed his eyes and let Dean work him towards his peak. His hand joined Dean’s around his cock, they pulled on it together, Dean thumbing into the slit, Castiel thumping his tight fist against the base, pounding at the skin.

Dean made sounds - while they might not be entirely from his own pleasure, they certainly made Castiel’s experience more fulfilling. Dean had learned enough about Castiel’s reactions that he knew to make _noise_ , letting Castiel understand exactly how undone his sex was making him. Castiel pulsed out a droplet of pre-come every time Dean wailed from the back of his throat, mouth barely open, a low howl that rebounded throughout the whole ensuite. The people on the floor below may have even heard him.

Castiel couldn’t _breathe_.

Oh, it was grand, the way Dean touched him. He was bold with his touches the same way he made flower crowns; every kiss was a sunflower, every deep, mouthing lick against his skin was a rose. His hand twisted vines, his fingers made ivy; his grasp pushed away his creations, made new ones in their place.

And he was gentle.

The roses had no thorns, the sunflowers seeds were still soft. Dandelion fluff in the wind, carried on every breath.

“Deeean...”

“That’s it. That’s it, Cas. Say my name.” Dean was frowning, putting fat, gigantic kisses on Castiel’s abdomen. He groaned, a hollow, terrifying sound. “ _Say_ it, Cas, tell me you love me, say it...”

Castiel cracked, gasping, calling out as he hurtled towards his climax. He was going to come hard, he could feel it building. Electricity in his spine, pressure behind his hips, pushing him, pulling him.

“Say it say it say it,” Dean begged, a pleading, forsaken note in his words. “Tell me you’re thinking of me. Think of me, please.”

Castiel struggled to find words, but he breathed his hoarse exhales, and he pulled on Dean’s hair, ferocious as he said, “I have thought of nobody but you... s- since the day we met.”

Dean whined, mouth falling open. His hand knocked Castiel’s away and he took over the frantic tugging on his cock, squeezing his fist at the head, wrenching his orgasm closer. Dean looked wilder than Castiel even felt, and it was spectacular how _huge_ this feeling was, seeing Dean so fucking _desperate_.

He wanted it.

Castiel delivered.

Dean watched Castiel’s face as he came. Castiel was riveted by his own orgasm, scorched by how it shot in his body like fire, muscles destitute all at once; he could have crumbled, fallen to his knees - but he stayed standing, taking in the sight of Dean.

Dean smiled, in love. His eyelashes rested half-closed, eyes nothing but lusting shadows. In love. He held Castiel and he brought him through his zenith, kept it going, prolonged it for what felt like years. Years and years, in love.

Dean finally closed his eyes, tipping his head slightly so the final spurt of Castiel’s come fell directly onto his waiting tongue. Moaning once more, for what must have been the thousandth time, Dean set rounded lips upon Castiel’s cockhead, and sucked out whatever sanity Castiel had left.

Sighing, Dean rubbed open hands up and down Castiel’s hips, almost reaching his nipples. He grinned at him with subdued glee, blinking soundly. “Good?”

Castiel slumped against the tiles behind him, shivering breaths sweeping over his tongue. He nodded, glad his legs hadn’t collapsed under him. “Very. V-Very. M-uouhuuhh... oh god.”

Dean chuckled, climbing to his feet with an old-man grunt of “ _Ah._ ” He rubbed his sore knees, then lifted his face so he was level with Castiel. He was decorated in white. Wet, it shone - it was splodgy and puddly and it _slid_ down his chin, down the lenses of his glasses, but Dean didn’t seem to mind.

He winked, then rubbed right up into Castiel’s space, hips pushed together. He bit down on Castiel’s lower lip, then plucked it as he let it go. “You look hot like that,” he said to Castiel. “When you’ve just come.” His eyelids flicked up, eyes meeting, then he looked back to Castiel’s lips. “Can I rub on you?”

Castiel glanced down at himself, unable to see his cock since Dean’s middle was flush against his stomach. Dean’s rubbing would probably hurt, now Castiel was over-sensitised, but he nodded anyway. If Dean wanted to, he would allow it.

But Dean put his face against Castiel’s, not his groin, and he nuzzled him like that. Castiel gasped as he felt his own semen squishing between their cheeks, slippery, like soap. He could smell it, the briny scent of human sex. He could almost taste it.

Dean licked at Castiel’s face, a tiny mewl escaping his lips. His heat radiated over Castiel, pouring off him; he was blushing, maybe; Castiel’s mind was too blurred by his orgasm to properly determine anything. He did notice Dean’s glasses frames clipping his skin, however.

“Ouch,” he said, turning his face away.

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, lapping away the white smudge that shimmered on his bottom lip. “Hey, while you’re there...”

Castiel found himself manhandled in a semicircle, so Dean now stood where he had been. Dean sighed, satisfied, and leaned his shoulders against the tiles behind him. He shot Castiel a dirty little smirk, and Castiel began to run through all the possibilities of what Dean was planning.

“C’mere, “ Dean said, taking Castiel by the arm and tugging him a clumsy step closer. Dean spread his legs out across the shower floor, watching his own feet, before he settled and looked back to Castiel. With one hand on the back of Castiel’s neck, Dean fingered his free hand down Castiel’s torso, pinching at a nipple as he went.

“Dean?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He took Castiel’s penis in hand, and Castiel braced for an excessive touch, a final squeeze, but it didn’t come. Dean was just holding it, an inch from where his legs were parted.

“Dean...?”

Dean blew a short raspberry, then nodded upward until Castiel met his eye. He swiped his lips with his tongue, preparing to speak. “You said you needed to go, right? So go.”

“Go how?”

Dean’s eyebrows twitched, and he bit one corner of his lip. “You know. Bathroom.”

Castiel’s mouth slid open, brief discomfort falling away to total confusion. He looked down again, seeing that Dean had aimed his now-flaccid cock at the wall. Between his legs.

Castiel’s breath caught, knowing what Dean wanted him to do. It was strange. And Castiel tipped his head to the side, silently asking Dean a long list of questions.

Dean gave Castel’s cock an encouraging shake. “It’s... like a trust exercise.”

“In the same way that me standing behind you to catch you as you fall is a trust exercise,” Castiel intoned, with a small smirk.

Dean seemed caught out, shy. He shrugged a bare, water-dotted shoulder. “Maybe a bit kinky.”

“A _bit_?”

Dean sighed and looked away, eyes shining with what Castiel realised was a blush that didn’t turn his cheeks pink, just heated his face. “If you... Look, if you don’t want to, that’s fine.”

“Is _this_ what you like? Urination? In a... sensual manner?”

Dean shrugged again, meeting his eye. “Don’t know. Never done it.”

Castiel set his lips together, thinking it over. He was out of his comfort zone for certain; some things were always meant for a person’s singular privacy. Yet, Dean had relieved himself in front of Castiel - more than once - and that didn’t bother either of them. It shouldn’t be so different for Castiel, should it?

It was curiosity, rather than the desire to please Dean, which eventually made Castiel nod his head. “Only if I do it myself,” he said, offering his only term. Dean nodded at once, letting Castiel hold his own penis.

‘Strange’ perhaps didn’t cover this.

Castiel wasn’t uncomfortable. But the total bizarrity of what he was about to do didn’t fail to make his insides quiver.

Swallowing, watching himself and his aim, Castiel rested his free hand against the wall beside Dean’s head. His eyes flicked to Dean’s, seeing how closely he watched Castiel.

As the first burst of liquid freed itself from Castiel, he sensed something new in this act. He watched the slow strand hit the wall, spreading into a triangle as it flowed down the black tiles, any colour invisible.

It felt good. Different to how this usually was. Dean’s breath was heavy, loud; his hands grasped Castiel’s nape, his shoulder, thighs strong as he held them apart as Castiel urinated between them.

When Dean whimpered, Castiel glanced up. Dean had been watching the flow, but now he thumped his head back against the wall, teeth digging into his lip, cheeks reddened with a drastic blush. His eyes were clenched shut behind his semen-smudged glasses, and he panted, breathing so harshly that he wheezed.

His teeth freed up his lip, and he opened his mouth, already moaning.

Dean was so turned on by this that it was surely making him dizzy; his head was lolling, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat.

Licking his lips quickly, Dean broke that moan, and he looked down again. Castiel saw how intently he watched the gradual release, eyes locked on the act.

He looked a mess. Wrecked.

Castiel took pride in it.

Dean gasped, and Castiel looked up, met Dean’s eyes - but was taken unawares as Dean set their mouths together, rocking their lips around a breath, sucking, swallowing. He tasted like Castiel’s semen, and like the water from the shower.

Castiel was still peeing, unable to stop; his bladder was fuller than he’d realised. He was barely thinking about it, but the way Dean kissed him told him he liked that he was still going. They could both hear it, the change in his aim; liquid trickled, hit the tiles in tiny droplets, endless; Castiel could feel the warmth moving past his feet.

Castiel had never kissed while urinating before. It was... stimulating.

And then Dean broke the kiss, hand around Castiel’s hand, both of them holding his cock together. Dean sighed, smiling, watching Castiel as Castiel watched him.

Castiel blinked, sensing another change. What he saw below made him shudder, on the line between shock and inexplicable pleasure. Dean was guiding his aim so Castiel was now releasing against his thigh. The last slowing pulses of pent-up liquid poured down Dean’s leg, flattening his fine hair to his skin. It trickled and it swayed its path, and Dean held it steady. It wasn’t a mistake, he _wanted_ it there.

It was the most curious kind of trust; Dean was showing Castiel something about himself that he may never show anyone again. Something maybe he could barely admit to himself that he wanted.

Wet. Wet and messy.

This was, without a doubt, the most intimate thing Castiel had ever done in his entire life. He felt a closeness to Dean that their kisses and their secrets did not even afford them. With their eyes locked, this was their communion.

Finally Castiel finished, and he didn’t do anything more than keep on looking into Dean’s eyes, in total awe.

Dean was blushing like never before, his glasses almost totally steamed up. He looked blissed out of his mind, and Castiel couldn’t find words to voice his questions. Why did Dean enjoy this? _How_ did _Castiel_ enjoy this?!

Dean sucked on his lower lip, shaking Castiel’s cock gently so the last drip fell away, barely noticed. The steam cleared from Dean’s glasses, and he looked back at Castiel with a dark-eyed stare. He seemed soft all over, pliable. The tiny smile on his lips was as much a word of thanks as it was a display of his satisfaction.

Castiel licked his own lips, breaking eye contact, pulling himself out of Dean’s hold. Dean inhaled quickly, gathering himself together as Castiel did the same. Blinking at the ceiling in wonder, Castiel turned the shower back on, letting it wash away the strangeness.

After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, hands on Castiel’s back, washing him down.

“Did you like it?” Dean asked, kissing Castiel’s neck from behind.

Castiel shrugged, mulling it over.

Eventually, he answered, “I didn’t _dis_ like it.”

Dean took that to be good enough to hope for, and he began to kiss Castiel’s shoulders all over.

Castiel barely thought about anything. He reached to pick up the soap, and for the first time since stepping into the shower, he and Dean set about washing themselves.

And they washed each other.

They kissed, and they soaped over each other’s torsos, let the bubbles tickle between their fingers. Dean laughed as Castiel purposely rubbed his tummy, making Dean fold over himself in a fit of giggles. He could be so young like that, when he was laughing. Years fell off him like the water did, worries and thoughts of life outside each other washed away down the drain.

They washed each other’s thighs, between each other’s buttocks. They laughed, because it was funny. They touched each other because it was special.

And they turned the water off, and they kissed because they loved each other.

✿

“God... dammit,” Dean muttered, thumping his shirt back onto the neatly-made bed, the fresh scent of the palace-like bedroom infiltrating his senses even more than Castiel’s shower gel already had.

He picked up his cellphone, grimacing as he thumbed its buttons. Eighteen missed messages, comprised of both calls and texts.

He sat heavily on the bed, going back through his inbox to find the first messages. The light of the morning bordered his bare shoulders from behind, shining off the screen of his phone, making it hard to see.

Castiel wandered past the unused bedroom, and Dean lifted his head and murmured, “Hi.”

“I’m making breakfast,” Castiel said, holding the door handle as he leaned into the room. “Pancakes or English muffins?”

“Pancakes,” Dean said immediately. “They’re quicker. I’m really late for work.”

“It’s only―” Castiel poked his head into the hallway, as if that would tell him the time. Maybe there was a clock Dean couldn’t see, but either way, Dean lifted his wristwatch and answered first.

“It’s gone eleven,” Dean said, slamming his wrist back to his thigh, making the denimed muscle judder. “And―” He glanced to the screen, saw the date, and sighed, shoulders slumping. “And it’s Thursday. I was supposed to go to the flower market this morning. Shop’s out of fresh stock.”

Castiel hummed as he stood in the doorway. “Maybe don’t bother opening today.”

Dean’s eyebrows bumped upward. “Might have to do exactly that, ‘cause I am _not_ paying retail if I gotta buy the stock in the daytime.”

He opened the first message, then groaned.

“What is it?” Castiel asked.

“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming over here last night. And... crap.”

Dean went through the messages, one by one. “Benny was over for dinner last night - he comes over for beer sometimes - and I wasn’t there. And the kittens opened their eyes. Fucking fuck. And - shit - Lucifer chewed through my bedsheets. And everyone is really worried about me because I literally just jumped ship and didn’t show up?! Christ, what is this, high school? I’m meant to tell everyone where I’m going to be and when I’ll be home and why I’m going - and who I’ll be with, and―”

Dean stopped breathing as Castiel’s hands cupped his face. He looked up slowly, closing his mouth as Castiel shushed him, calm and gentle. His hands moved away, and he smiled. “They worry because they care. I grew up with overprotective parenting, and I found that, eventually, I understood why they do it.” He shrugged. “In the absence of parents, your friends - your family - they’re doing their best. Call them back, set them at ease.”

Dean pouted at Castiel. “When did you turn into mother-freaking Yoda?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, turning towards the door. “Pancakes, I am going to make.”

Dean chuckled. “Did you just―” He stood up, hurrying to watch Castiel laugh his way down the hallway. “You got my reference!”

Castiel flipped Dean the bird, and Dean fell for him another notch.

Laughing to himself, he shuffled back into the bedroom. He closed the door, to save Castiel the trouble of debating whether or not he could eavesdrop. Dean dialed Charlie’s number first, and held it to his ear as it rang.

“ _Dean!_ ”

“Hey Charlie. Before you ask, I’m fine. I’m at Cas’ place.”

“ _I know that, I drove over last night to find you, but the lady at the front desk said unless it was urgent,_ Mister Emanuel Montmorency is not to be disturbed _. And she wouldn’t tell me his room number, either._ ”

“He’s got the penthouse,” Dean said, smirking slightly.

“ _Dang,_ ” Charlie said. She paused for a moment, then asked, “ _So you’re all good?_ ”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. I had a good night.”

“ _Glad to hear it, because Sam was going out of his mind until I told him you’d be with Cas._

Dean heard a shop buzzer in the phone receiver, and then Charlie gasped. “ _Gotta go, hot stuff, I’ve got a customer!_ ”

“Awesome. All right, see you ‘round.”

The call ended. Shaking his head, Dean straight away dialled Sam’s number from memory, hoping Sam had the phone on him, rather than leaving it at home if he’d gone out.

“ _Dean?_ ” came the immediate yelp into the phone, and Dean grinned.

“Hey, Sammy. How’re you doing―”

“ _Dean where the hell were you. I called you like a million times, why didn’t you pick up? You’re such an idiot, I thought you were dead for Christ’s sakes._ ”

“Whoa, that’s a bit of an overrea―”

“ _Dean, I am not about to take Benny’s_ word _on Castiel, do you hear me? I don’t_ trust _anyone. Not Benny, not ‘Cas’._ ”

Dean’s stomach plummeted, and suddenly the sun’s rebounding warmth through the window didn’t do anything for the chill of his naked torso. “Cas is a good guy. So is Benny.”

“ _Cas is a stranger. And any man you’re attracted to is cause for alarm, in case you need that reiterating._ ”

Dean set his jaw, rubbing the heel of his hand against his thigh, for comfort, or to work out some of the frustration that was building. “Benny and me aren’t like that. And he’s the mother _fuck_ ing sheriff, Sam. If you can’t trust law enforcement, why the hell are we in WitSec, huh?”

Sam sighed, puffing away his annoyance. “ _Look, I didn’t mean to blow up at you. I’m just worried._ ”

“Worried, yeah, I know. Whatever, Sam. I had a good night last night, away from all the crap. Not that that would mean anything to you, you being locked in your room the whole time. It’s not like you _notice_ the chaos that goes on at home all the time.”

He pressed his lips together as soon as he’d said it. Too harsh. “Crap. Sorry. Sorry, Sam. I’m just―” He sighed, rubbing a finger and thumb under his glasses, pushing at the buzz in his eyelids. “I just needed some time off. For what it’s worth, I might take a few nights away. I slept pretty well here, no cats and all.”

He could swap cats for cuddles. It seemed like an excellent exchange. Not that he’d say that to Sam, of course.

Sam was tapping a pen against a table, a nervous habit of his that Dean recognised the rhythm of. “ _All right. Fine. We can deal with the... ‘chaos’, for a few days._ ” A pause. “ _You were with Castiel the whole night?_ ”

Dean nodded. “Mm-hm.” He smiled.

“ _And he didn’t hurt you._ ”

“No way in hell, Sammy,” Dean said. “Told you. Good guy.”

Sam sighed in what was probably resignation rather than acceptance. “ _Just be careful. And I want to see you home tonight. You sleep here._ ”

“Aw, come _on_ , Sam―”

“ _Tonight, Dean. Then you sleep wherever you want, but I - we, all of us - we need to make sure you’re okay._ ”

Dean sucked on the back of his lip. “You sound like how Mom would sound like.”

“ _Ha. I guess that’s a compliment._ ”

Dean huffed an almost-laugh. “Guess it is. Okay, deal, I’ll come home tonight. But tomorrow I’m outta there.”

Sam took in a breath. “ _Wait, it’s not forever, right? It’s just a sleepover, or―_ ”

“Me and Cas aren’t little girls, come on. I’m sleeping _with_ him, not on a pull-out cot on the floor.” Dean grinned at the mere thought.

“ _You... didn’t answer the question._ ”

Dean shook his head. “I’m not moving in with him. Not... Not yet. I don’t know, we haven’t talked about that kind of crap. Right now it’s just friend stuff and sex and talking. And we wash dishes together.”

He smiled a little at that last mention. He and Cas were pretty much plunging head-first into domestic bliss, and Dean wasn’t even complaining. Cas was good at washing, Dean was good at drying. (Mostly because he didn’t like touching dirty plates.)

“ _Right._ ” Sam probably pulled a face at this point. “ _See you tonight. And next time, tell me before you take off for the night. And keep your stupid phone with you!_ ”

“Gotcha, Sam,” Dean groaned, waiting for his brother to hang up, since Dean wouldn’t be the first to do it.

“ _Okay. Bye._ ”

Dean sighed and flopped back on the bed as Sam ended the call. Staring at the tiny chandelier on the ceiling, Dean grumbled to himself. He and Sam always had each other’s backs, all their lives - but for the first time, Dean was in want of his own space.

It was new. And it scared him. But Castiel made it worth it. Castiel was his, there to help him spread his wings. Thirty-five years, and this was his first chance.

He could be free.

His mind still on freedom, Dean thought about Benny. Keeping them safe. It was Benny’s job to know everything about them, their pasts. He knew about the shadow that lurked in Dean’s blood; it was sitting in his medical files, plain as day.

In Dean’s experience, people heard he had HIV and they shied away from him, afraid he’d infect them. It didn’t pass through saliva, nor urine, nor touch, nor breath, but people still saw it as a stigma. They thought they couldn’t be around Dean, or their immune system would destroy itself as systematically as Dean’s would, eventually.

So Dean didn’t tell people. He didn’t tell Cas. He didn’t want to drive him away.

It was blood. Blood and semen. That was how it passed on. Dean’s own fluid was killing him.

He could pass what he had to Cas, too. Sure, Cas had the same infection, but there were infinite strains of HIV, it mutated and was difficult as fuck to treat. What Dean had was not the same as what Castiel had, and they could transfer it between them. Such cases were rare, but if it did happen, it would make them both sicker for sure.

They had to be careful. But sometimes it was so hard to resist...

On another branch of thought, Dean wondered if Benny knew about Castiel’s HIV as well. Cas and Benny were friends, and had been for years. From what Dean gathered, they’d known each other since they were kids. Which meant... Which meant he probably knew, right?

Cas didn’t have many friends. Which was a crazy-ass thing, because he was fucking amazing. But the point stood, standing like a fountain of thought in Dean’s mind: Castiel would have gone to Benny when he needed help, when he got sick for the first time.

So Benny knew. He had to.

Dean dialled Benny’s number, also from memory. He kept staring at the ceiling, waiting for Benny to pick up.

“ _Sheriff Lafitte._ ”

“Benny, hi, it’s me.”

“ _Ahh, and it crawls forth to beg forgiveness. I brought you beer, brother, and you stood me up._ ”

“Sorry, man,” Dean muttered, kicking his socked heels against the side of the plush bed. “Last night, I didn’t mean to bail on you, I just forgot. But - I wanna ask you something.”

Benny sighed, and Dean heard the flip of paper and the flap of a closing folder. “ _Sure. What’s the issue?_ ”

Dean wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, glancing towards the closed door. “Um. Okay, you know Cas?”

“ _I do know Cas._ ” There came the squeak of a heavy fire door closing, its thump echoing down a long inside hallway. Dean had been in the sheriff’s department building, so he could rightly assume Benny was walking towards the fire exit, where officers usually stood around and smoked. “Is this some kinda IQ test? Ain’t those supposed to be hard?”

“Shuddup, Benny,” Dean grinned, then forced away the smile. “No, I’m serious. You’ve known Cas for years, I just need to know if you... if he ever told you something.”

“ _Told me what?_ ”

“That he... you know, has what I have.” He cleared his throat. “HIV. AIDS.” Dean licked his lips again, hating that he had to say it aloud. Every time he said it, it felt like he was calling for Bloody Mary in a mirror.

“ _He told you,_ ” Benny inferred. “ _I wondered how long it would take._ ”

“So you did know.”

“ _Yeah._ ” Benny’s voice had changed, the echo lost as he strode out into open air. Dean could hear distant traffic, a rumble of a truck going by. “ _I couldn’t tell you, you know that, right?_ ”

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean said, turning his cheek into the comforter, rubbing his skin against its smooth cloth. “Sheriff-to-friend confidentiality, it’s fine.”

“ _I oughta have told you he was positive,_ ” Benny sighed, his voice becoming slow and heavy. “ _Not only because it’s a crime for you not to tell your fuckbuddies you’re carrying. If you’d done it on purpose with real intent to pass it on, the two of you could be looking at eight to ten years, each._ ”

Dean shut his eyes, trembling as he set his hand over his face. He couldn’t find words to say; dread and guilt washed over him, cold as meltwater. “I - I didn’t―”

“ _I know you had no intention of infecting each other, brother,_ ” Benny said kindly, and Dean almost managed a smile, thankful that Benny knew both of them so well. “ _But,_ ” Benny went on, taking a breath, “ _You ‘n Cas are my two best friends, all right? God only knows how I landed stuck with the two biggest dipshits on the planet. You could’ve killed each other. You still could._ ”

Dean swallowed, twice, still not brave enough to open his mouth. He wondered how strong his friendship with Benny really was, and if this was one too many last chances. What he’d done, what Cas had done... it was serious. Prison serious. _Murder_ serious.

“ _Just know, Dean, that I ain’t waiving this charge for a favour to you, or ‘cause I want to avoid the paperwork. I’m keeping it quiet because I know you, and I know Emanuel, and even if you do end up killing each other someday, that’s in your hands. Not mine. I’d rather you get to that point together rather than apart._ ”

Dean’s hand lifted off his face, realising Benny meant he wasn’t going to arrest Dean. Hope bubbled up - while it was unable to push away the regretful feelings and knowledge he’d done wrong, Benny’s reassurance still evaporated a small burden. But Benny kept speaking, and Dean’s hopeful feeling quivered. “ _There’s something else I know, actually. Which I ain’t meant to be telling you, but you oughta be told. Since you haven’t mentioned it, yet, I guess Sam didn’t tell you already._ ”

Dean sat bolt upright at the mention of his brother. “Tell me what?”

Benny took a breath. “ _Sarah got caught breaking into medical files the other night. Tuesday evening._ ”

“But... she works there, at the hospital. She’s allowed to go through that stuff, isn’t she?”

“ _Not when those files have nothing to do with her. She spent a few hours down here in the cells, until Sam came and paid her bail._ ”

Dean gaped. “Wait, Tuesday night? Fuck, Sam told me he was at school and I didn’t come pick him up. The little shithead.”

Dean scrubbed his hand back through his hair, barely noticing that it was dry already. God, he felt betrayed. It was a cold, hurtful feeling, piled over the hard grip of guilt.

“So... what the hell was Sarah looking for, anyways?” he asked, needing more information. Sam and Sarah would have had a good reason, Dean was sure of it.

“ _That’s the thing. Medical files, for - uh... Heh-heh. Emanuel Montmorency._ ”

Dean growled and fell back on the bed again, glaring at the glimmering light that shaped diamonds across the white ceiling. “They were trying to run background checks on him.”

Benny sighed, but didn’t deny such a thing. “ _I’m only telling you for one reason, brother, and_ only _that one reason. Besides what you did, this is a strike on Sarah’s record too. WitSec has a no-tolerance policy on breaking parole, y’all already know that. She could be in jail for good, and I don’t mean to make myself look like a knight in shining armour here, but the only reason she’s still around is that I waived it._ ”

“You’re seriously doing that for us? You’re just... making it go away?”

“ _I ain’t gonna make a habit of it, brother._ ”

“No, no, of course not, obviously,” Dean agreed, then swallowed. “Thanks, man.”

“ _It’s nothin’. You just take it easy, all right? Let Emanuel take care of you._ ”

Dean scoffed lightly. “Wow, you and him gotta be talking a lot, huh.”

“ _He does tell me enough, yeah. Mostly things I could do without knowing, but―_ ” Dean chuckled, and Benny joined in. “ _―But he’s pretty clear on how much he likes you._ ”

Dean smiled, enjoying sentiment like that coming from Benny. “Sweet.”

“ _As sugar. It’s sickening._ ”

Grinning, Dean shook his head. “What the fuck am I going to say to Sarah? And Sam. Dammit, they’re such jerks.” Sighing, he closed his eyes. “Actually, Benny, one more question.”

“ _Shoot._ ”

“This zero-tolerance policy. Would that include, say, uh - satellite TV? If a WitSeckie maybe didn’t _pay_ for it. And brought their Sheriff friend over a few times to watch some stuff on it. And didn’t tell their Sheriff friend it wasn’t quite, ah... legal. What then?”

He sucked on his lip, waiting for the answer.

“ _Well, I think said WitSeckie needs a slap upside the head with a bat,_ ” Benny said. “ _And he should either pay for that shit or disconnect it right away. I ain’t picky._ ”

“Right.” Dean swallowed, nodding slowly. “Right, yes. Good.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks again, Benny.”

“ _Anytime._ ” He sounded somewhere between amused and sour. But Dean could hear that he was smiling, so Dean smiled too.

“See ya, Benny.”

“ _See ya, brother._ ”

Dean ended the call and sighed at the ceiling. “I could really use some pancakes right now,” he murmured, sliding off the bed, then turning around to put his shirt on.

✿

Breakfast was about as good as Dean expected. Pancakes were pancakes, and Castiel was pretty darn decent at making them. Dean even ate the crappy little one that was at the bottom of the stack. The pan hadn’t been hot enough when Castiel made it, and - as Castiel remarked - it was shaped like an elephant.

Dean was late, as he made sure to remind himself out loud every few minutes. He began to make his slow, slow journey towards the door, which consisted of rather more kissing than walking.

He’d pull away, and Cas would murmur, “One more. One more, Dean.”

They’d kiss, and then it would be, “Please, Dean. I need another kiss. I need it.”

And Dean would give it to him, because he wasn’t immune to that need. He loved to hear Castiel beg like that, asking for a last kiss, always one more.

Dean would pull away on purpose, just to hear Castiel cry a low, hungry sound; “Dean, don’t go, just one more. Last one... last one, I promise.”

They made it as far as the wall between the oak hallway and the kitchen before Dean gave up, and let Castiel smooch him for five minutes straight.

Then maybe a little longer.

Okay, a _lot_ longer.

They kissed until the skin around Dean’s lips was all the same colour, until Castiel was too sore to touch his mouth to anything that wasn’t Dean.

Each kiss got them closer to being sated beyond belief. But they’d never reach that satiation, always one more, one more.

Kissing each other was like staring into another level of consciousness for a while, seeking perfection that they always found. Just the smallest touches, the easiest of affections - it gave them both proof, to themselves, to each other. Sometimes they didn’t need to say anything, because kisses would say it for them.

Making out with Castiel was...

Dean didn’t even have words for it.

_Good_. Good feeling, good emotion. Good touch.

Positive.

As that word crossed his mind, _positive positive positive_ , he broke the kiss, breathed against Castiel’s scruffy chin. “Cas,” he whispered, pretending his mouth didn’t sting. “Cas, I gotta say something.”

“Mm, anything,” Castiel moaned, flopping his body forward a bit more, sealing their mouths again. He was like a ragdoll in Dean’s arms - if the wall wasn’t behind him to support his back, Castiel would be on the floor.

Dean nosed Castiel’s mouth away again, because what he had to say was not to be peppered with hot, smothering kisses. “We. You and me.” He licked his burning lips, then swallowed. “We’re not dealing with... _this_ well. We have problems, and we’re... running away from them.”

Castiel shook his head, eyes on Dean’s lips as he pulled him in by his collar. “Don’t care. Kiss me.”

Dean smiled, breathed hard into the kiss, a short whimper resting on his tongue as he turned his lips. He pulled away again, panting. “Not kidding, Cas. You’re engaged to someone else. Stop and think about that for a minute.”

Castiel’s breath became harsh for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Dean. “I don’t... I don’t feel about her the way I feel about you.”

Dean held Castiel’s hand, pulling it slowly so he could play with it beside their faces. He kissed a fingertip, turning Castiel’s hand to show him the silver ring he still wore. “But that’s not the point,” Dean said. “Marriage is a promise, and you’re breaking it. If you don’t love her, break off the engagement, but don’t break the promise.”

Castiel looked at Dean with soft eyes; haunted eyes. “I can’t let my father down.”

“Stop it.” Dean took Castiel’s head between his hands, frowning as he kissed Castiel’s cheek. Lips against his skin, he said, “You’re almost forty years old, you should be able to do whatever you want. But don’t do this.”

Dean inhaled, his gaze rising to the high ceiling as he put a kiss on Castiel’s forehead. “That wasn’t even the whole point. The other thing is,” he rubbed his nose side-to-side over the frown Castiel wore, “neither of us said a word to each other. We didn’t tell each other we were HIV-positive.”

_Positive positive positive_. The only time that word wasn’t a good thing.

Castiel gulped. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to―”

“Get freaked out and run away, yeah I know. Me too. That’s why I don’t tell people either.”

Dean let Castiel kiss him some more; it was calming, and soothing, and it stopped the rising pain that came with all this knowledge.

Dean sighed against Castiel’s mouth. “But you could have hurt me, Cas. I could have hurt you, too. You understand, right? If either one of us didn’t already have HIV, we could have literally _killed_ each other. I didn’t realise you had it, and I never said anything when you sucked me off.” Dean closed his eyes. “Cas, you need to know that that was _not_ okay. What kind of relationship is this if we don’t protect each other?”

Castiel’s breath came wet and shaky across Dean’s cheek, dislodging Dean’s glasses by half an inch. “I was so selfish. All I saw was your mouth, and you offered, and I let you.” Castiel rested his forehead on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean shook his head. “It’s fine. That part’s over now. No danger. But Cas―” He lifted Castiel’s head from his shoulder, making sure he made eye contact. “This is a problem. We say we’re―” Dean grinned, “in love, or whatever, but...” He pressed his swollen lips together, and the smile pressed away. “I didn’t want to hurt you. And I still did something that would have hurt you. Both of us did.”

Castiel looked heartbroken, and _angry_. But that anger was not directed at Dean; he was angry at himself. Selfish, the two of them. Self-involved and stupid.

“We kept secrets,” Dean went on, eyes lowering to Castiel’s kiss-pinked mouth. “You lied about your name. I never told you about my life―”

“But you did!” Castiel breathed hard, pushed his mouth into Dean’s, grunting. “But you did tell me, Dean. You weren’t allowed to, Witness Protection is different to lying.”

Dean shook his head. “Still felt like lying. And I’m not a good person, Cas. I can tell you everything about me, and maybe you’d accept it all, but how am I going to know you’d be okay with it in, like, a year’s time, when it all hits you at once? By then your marriage would be even more shit than it is now.”

Castiel looked like he was about to cry. “You’re my warrior, Dean. I can’t expect you to be perfect. You’re _human_.” He pulled in a tight, shuddering breath, then closed his eyes. “And I hate myself too. But I love _you_.”

Dean felt his mouth quiver as Castiel opened his eyes, fearsome truth in his gaze.

Dean pushed on, needing to say everything. “We’ve― We’ve told each other bad lies. Not small ones. You’re lying to Daphne, your father. Everyone back at home knows what I’m doing with you, and if I didn’t trust them to know, I’d be lying to them too. Seriously, I’d tell any lie to anyone so I could spend time with you, I’m not kidding.”

He pulled a tiny smile. “But Benny told me something today on the phone, something that made me realise I’m not the only one with deep, deep trust issues.” Dean shrugged, acting like he wasn’t severely upset by Sam and Sarah poking around behind his back. “Everyone I know has got a wall between them. Lies and secrets. And I’m meant to be living in a place of safety, but I’m not. Not when people I love still lie. Even when they think it’s to protect me.”

Castiel lowered his eyes, a noticeable darkness on his lashes that could have been hidden tears. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice heavy.

Dean kissed his lips quickly, which hurt, but it felt important. “So am I. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Castiel nodded, looking up. His eyes were watery, lashes spread out, a single tear stuck to the skin below his eye. “Are you saying we should end this?”

Dean pulled in a huge, slow breath, hoping he could inhale some bravery in doing so. “M- Maybe we should,” he said, looking down and away. “Not saying I want to, but given... everything...”

Castiel deflated, thumping his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “But I love you.”

“But we lied.”

“But I still love you.”

“Will you lie again?” Dean asked, cupping the back of Castiel’s soft hair. The question was for himself as much as it was for Castiel. Could he say for certain that he would never keep a secret from Castiel again, never offer him one single falsity? He couldn’t promise not to; he lied to everyone. It was as easy and automatic for him as breathing.

Castiel sighed lengthily against Dean’s t-shirt, then lifted his head. “If I’m honest, I probably will. To Daphne, definitely yes. To my father, the same. I don’t intend to tell him what I have. He, um, needed a blood transfusion some time ago, and I had to pay someone a lot of money to provide a match instead, and let me pass it off as my own - because I couldn’t let him know I’m infected.” He swallowed, raising his eyebrows as he lowered his eyes. “It was dangerous. I shouldn’t have done it. I could have killed him.”

He looked Dean in the eye, and his expression seemed to droop. “I could have been a murderer too.”

Dean parted his lips, but couldn’t find a single thing to say, so closed his mouth again.

Castiel turned his gaze away, his back still pressed to the wall as he hugged Dean. “In having my father be so protective when I was growing up, I learned to lie to get away, protect myself. I’m good at it. Yet I feel guilty every time.”

Dean rested their foreheads together. “I know you do. That’s good, it’s good to feel guilt. It means you still have a moral compass.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when you realise what you’ve done?”

Dean could have laughed at how heartfelt Castiel’s words were. Bitter. Irate. He hated Dean for being a killer, Dean could feel it in his shaking shoulders, the clutch of his hands around the back of his neck.

Honestly, Dean smiled. He looked into Castiel’s eyes, and he said, “Yes.”

Castiel’s firm jaw slackened a little, and he nodded, eyes sliding down to Dean’s lips. “One day I might not care. Feel free to hate me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” Dean said, nodding as he set his lips against Castiel’s. “I’m old enough to know what I feel. This isn’t about to stop, what I feel for you. If we end this, I’m not coming out of it alive.”

Castiel clutched him tighter. He knew what Dean meant.

There were needles hidden in the apartment, ones Sarah and Sam didn’t know about. There was whiskey in the ceiling slats. There were three packs of cigarettes under the lemon tree on Dean’s balcony garden. He’d suffocate himself to death, and he didn’t care.

Dean realised it sounded like blackmail. Like abuse. _Don’t leave me or I’ll kill myself._ And the guilt kept coming.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, sobbing immediately against Castiel’s neck. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t do that to you. Or Sammy. Shit. Shit, I want to take that back.”

“But it could be true.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll let it be true.” Dean kissed Castiel, growling at the back of his throat. He bit his lips away, heaving furious breaths, frowning so deeply that his eyes were almost pressed closed. “If you marry Daphne, I’ll make sure I’m fine. I am _not_ going to let you destroy my life.”

Castiel nodded. Kissed his cheeks, face between gentle hands. “Good. You’re my little tiger. You _fight_.”

Dean laughed, wrapping his arms around Castiel. “Just... just make a decision. Break up or keep going. But don’t make me decide, I can’t do it.”

Castiel kissed the top of his head. “Dean, I’m not going to end this. Not now, not ever. I _will_ be with you.”

Dean sniffed, lifting his head. “Wait, really?”

Castiel smiled. “You make me as happy as I apparently make you. Nobody’s ever done that before. And even if it could happen again, with somebody else, that doesn’t mean I want it to. I want you.” He prodded a finger at Dean’s forehead, then flattened the same hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “ _You_.”

Dean smiled. Then he laughed, and he cuddled up against Castiel. Happy.

“No more secrets, then,” he said, swaying their bodies from side to side. “We gotta trust one another. Tell me everything, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Castiel sniffed, pulling himself together. His voice was cracked and sticky, but assured, as he said, “What do you want to know?”

Dean pulled away, putting a kiss quickly onto Castiel’s mouth. “Anything you thought about before, thought about telling me, then freaked out and didn’t.”

Castiel lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “You first?”

Dean scoffed. “All right, uh...” He pulled away, taking a step back for the first time in what might have been longer than half an hour. He grinned, running a fingertip over his sore, swollen lips. “I liked it when you pissed on me.”

Castiel sank his head into his palms, groaning as he laughed. “Oh, my god. Not that. I already know that.”

Dean cackled, starting to pace on the wooden floor. “When I met you, the first few weeks, I was dying for you to ask me for my phone number. Mostly ‘cause I fantasised so much, about you calling me up while I was jerking off in bed. And you’d hear me breathing hard, and moaning, and you’d get turned on. And we’d get off together.” Dean licked his lips, glad Castiel’s eyes were watching him as he wandered around the living room, watching the steady smirk on his face.

“And we’d get to talking,” Dean said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “And we’d laugh and stuff, I’d tell crappy jokes and you’d like me.” Dean shrugged, half his mouth curling upward. “Maybe we’d get together after that. I thought about it a lot. So, yeah. That was why I was so enthusiastic when you asked for my number.”

“It didn’t happen like that,” Castiel said, still leaning against the wall. “But maybe you’d still like to try―”

“What? Phone sex?” Dean shook his head. “We’ve moved past it. Some stuff should stay as fantasy.”

Castiel tilted his head, a sly grin showing his teeth. Dean rolled his eyes, seeing an unsaid implication. “Some fantasies you gotta play out, okay? Quit looking at me like that, I liked the kinky thing.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Castiel smiled, finally pushing off the wall and straightening his blue tie, which had been loosened to a point that it was just a bit of cloth with an ugly knot in it. “But, Dean, I don’t think this is the kind of secret we need to be telling. While I... I want to know all of these things about you, there are more important secrets.”

“I don’t have anything else to tell,” Dean said, shrugging his lower lip. “Not big stuff, anyway. You know I have HIV, I messed around with the wrong people, and now I’m paying for it.” He tilted his head to the side, bouncing his chin. “Actually, I once robbed a bank. Nasty English dude tried to off me, shot me in the back.” He thumbed over his shoulder, guessing Castiel had already seen that horrid scar at some point.

He added, “I’m, uh, afraid of spiders. And flying, and heights.”

“Afraid of falling,” Castiel said right away. They smiled together. “Me too.”

Dean nodded. “I’m an Aquarius, I hate asparagus, I’m blood type A-positive―”

“A-positive, me too.”

“Apart from that, I got nothing.”

Castiel sighed, his face going blank as he half-closed his eyes, looking to the floor.

“What?” Dean asked.

Castiel took a breath. “I have a secret. I was going to tell you eventually - soon, actually - but I suppose I should tell you now.”

Dean perked up, striding forward, past the couch. He stood a foot in front of Castiel, then nodded. “Hit me.”

Castiel squinted, misunderstanding the phrase - Dean shook his head, grinned, and Castiel got it. “Oh,” he said.

He looked out of the nearest window, narrowing his eyes as the midday light reflected vague yellow into his face. “I’m planning to buy Cupid’s Bow from Benny.”

Dean balked. “Wait, what? As in, my shop?”

Castiel nodded, chin to his sternum. “Yes. And Charlie’s toy shop, and the coffee shop opposite. And... well, the whole street, all of the shops. Benny owns most of it, I’m in discussions with other owners, trying to find a price to settle.”

“You’re not gonna tear the place up... are you?” Dean asked, fidgety with new worry. “Crap, I thought Benny’s ideas were bad enough.”

Castiel shook his head, meeting Dean’s eyes. “I intend to preserve the area. But, not how Charlie said, not... pickles, in a jar. I mean to invigorate the business. Improve it. People walk past those stores and they know they’re there, but they don’t go inside.”

Dean shrugged, turning away. “Yeah, I don’t know why. I get the impression people that assume they’re, like, decorative.”

“Exactly,” Castiel said. “That’s precisely what I thought about that street. I was using that lane as a bypass on foot, for years, and only when I had a date with Daphne on the next street did I even consider going inside. And for that matter, it was only an afterthought. I think we established early on that wooing women is not something in my best interests.”

“You wooed _me_ pretty damn good,” Dean muttered. He pursed his lips. “But I guess I ain’t a woman, so there’s that.”

Castiel chuckled, tucking his messy shirt back into his slacks. “Anyway. My intention is to make that place come alive. Hold events, charity drives away from the home venue. More advertising - targeted advertising. Community things, not commercial things. We can make it work.”

Huh. At least _something_ about Castiel’s failed business degrees had gone in.

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his mussed hair, humming as he thought. “So... why was this your big secret?”

Castiel parted his lips with the tip of his tongue, and he smiled. “It was going to be a surprise for you. Once it all went through. Your apartment - that’s part of the purchase. I was going to pay for your TV and your electricity and gas and... everything, really.”

Dean gaped. “You... Wh... Why?”

Castiel huffed, still smiling as he looked at Dean’s knees. “Wooing is not my forte, Dean. It was a grand gesture. Or, meant to be.”

“Grand... For _what_?”

Castiel raised his arms to his sides in a massive shrug, bare forearms catching the daylight. “I can’t tell you! I have another secret, Dean. But this one I won’t say.”

Dean kind of panicked. If Cas was about to announce _him_ as the new CEO of Divine Intervention, or whatever his dad’s company was called, Dean might just flip his lid.

“Cas...”

“Don’t worry about it, Dean,” Castiel said, sincerely. “I will tell you eventually. You’re part of the final decision, I want you with me when it all comes together.” He smiled again, flopping back against the wall, relaxing against it. “It was a backup plan, this grand gesture. It’s still in effect.”

“Well, how long do I have to wait?”

Castiel looked a little sad at the question, his lips tightened, and a depression seemed to steal over his body. “About a year,” he said.

“A _year_? Aw, come on, that’s ages. Why so long?”

Castiel shook his head, standing up straight and wandering towards the kitchen, shoulders stiff. “Believe me, a year can seem like a long time. Other times, it feels like no time at all.”

Dean felt like he should know what Cas meant. But he didn’t. He was left more confused than satisfied, and somewhat bewildered that after all of this, Castiel was still purposefully keeping something from him. But, hey, at least he was being _honest_ about it, right?

Dean sighed.

“So,” he started, following Castiel into the kitchen, “Can I talk to Benny about it?”

“He knows my plans. But I don’t think he’ll tell you,” Castiel said, with a smug smile. “Would you like a fruit smoothie?”

Dean gaped like a fish, watching Castiel pick a mango out of the wire basket in the corner of the kitchen. “Uh, sure. But...”

“We can invite Benny for dinner tomorrow night,” Castiel suggested, tossing an orange into the air, letting it fall into the opposite hand. “And he and I can show you just how annoying we can be, keeping our secret.”

“You’re _conspiring_.”

Castiel smirked, spinning a knife on one finger before catching it perfectly in his palm. “That we are.” He shot Dean a very annoying grin. “That... we... are.”


	20. Gumbo

Dean didn’t say a word to Sam about what Benny had told him. What was he meant to say, anyway? _I know you snooped into my boyfriend’s medical files, you overgrown puppy who cannot keep his nose to himself._

It was the thought of the word ‘boyfriend’ that threw Dean. He stood in the kitchen making stewed apple pastries for dessert, and all at once, his intent to tear Sam a new hole dissipated.

Cas wasn’t Dean’s boyfriend. Sure, he was a _boy_ and a _friend_ , but boyfriends were what teenage girls had in high school. People his age had partners, other halves, they’d call their spouses ‘the old ball-and-chain’. They were too old to be ‘lovers’. Lovers were slender young twenty-somethings who went to France to sing about roses over breakfast.

Castiel wasn’t any of those.

Castiel was just _there_. And to Castiel, Dean was his dirty little secret.

Cheater. Liar.

And when Sam showed up for dinner with the rest of the gang, Dean mumbled about having a good time last night, and never once breached the subject of Sam’s overprotectiveness.

Despite the fact Dean still had issues to work through with Castiel, he trusted him completely. And the same went for Sam. If Sam thought he needed to check up on Castiel’s background before he let Dean be with him, so be it.

In the long run, Dean figured he was glad he didn’t have to tell Sam about Castiel’s HIV himself. Revealing the fact that Benny kept it hush-hush would only make Sam hate the guy more, since Sam would assume it was a lack of care on Benny’s part that had him _not_ tell his best friends they were on track to indisposition by each other’s hand.

Dean was prepared to keep all the secrets in the dark, so long as it meant everyone he loved stuck around.

✿

Friday was easy. Dean opened shop as if it was Thursday, fresh batches of dahlias and violets making the place smell like Eden.

People came up to him as they came in, asked him why the shop was closed yesterday. He told them he was sick, stayed home in bed.

Bed, yes. Sick, no.

Liar. But what else would he say?

He tried not to think too much about it, and made his bouquets as beautifully as he always did.

There was a lovebite on his inner forearm that he rolled his shirt sleeves down to cover. He could feel the skin twingeing sometimes when he moved around, and he liked it.

Those kinds of marks always creeped him out before, because they were a _bruise_ , they were damage done in passion. It seemed painful in theory. But when it was Castiel’s mouth that had done it, when he sucked softly against his skin, tongue sweeping, moaning, mouthing, licking, biting, nibbling―

Thoughts drifted.

His day went on. His smiles rose higher, his eyes fixed to the clock. He loved what his hands created over the day, but for hours, he couldn’t wait to escape the shop. For the first time since the day he started working here, he _couldn’t wait to leave_.

✿

Castiel chopped celery, making sure the stringy bits weren’t long enough to catch in people’s teeth. “I know, Daphne, I’m sorry,” he said, pressing his cheek into the phone that was tucked between his ear and his shoulder. “I’ll catch up with it over the weekend, I have a lot of free time.”

“ _You’d better,_ ” Daphne said. “ _Honestly, I’m swamped. You wouldn’t think a day away would do so much damage._ ”

Castiel smirked. Yesterday, he’d had every intention to go into the office to poke around at things, but by the time Dean left and Castiel cleaned up after the previous night, he flopped into the couch and zoned out. Dean was on his mind more than anything, and Castiel didn’t want that to change.

“ _Emanuel._ ”

“What? Oh, sorry―” Castiel adjusted the phone, setting down his knife. “I was thinking about something.”

Daphne sighed. “ _I know, hon. Look, tomorrow’s Saturday, I know you come in sometimes at the weekend. The interim aren’t doing so well. Worse than usual. I feel like we’re on the brink of something, something’s about to crack. The shares are teetering, Emanuel. If the press gets wind of that your father’s no longer running―_ ”

“I know,” Castiel said, somewhat tersely. “We can’t afford it. I know.”

Daphne sighed again. “ _It’s not like you to avoid work. Even if you’re not paid for this, it’s still important. In fact, it’s especially important, given your shares in Divine Power are all that separates you from the poorhouse._ ”

“It’s not a matter of wages,” Castiel said, leaning his lower back against the kitchen island. “I just have... other things occupying my time.”

“ _Hobbies are all well and good, but not when this company is at stake._ ”

Castiel smirked some more. If Dean was a hobby, Castiel probably had enough background and experience to run his own convention.

“ _Emanuel!_ ”

“God - god, I’m sorry,” Castiel said, setting his hand to his forehead. “I’m so distracted.”

“ _Have you... have you seen a doctor? You don’t sound well. Is that why you’re avoiding this?_ ”

“I am well,” Castiel said, smiling slightly as he made his way to the cupboard, pulling out the sack of brown rice. “I’ll make a date to see you soon. I’m not avoiding work, and I’m not avoiding you.” (Lies.)

Daphne’s soft puff of exhaling breath sounded much like relief. “ _Good. That’s great to know. Actually, uhhh, I should go, I have a dinner to finish, the oven beeper’s going. I’ll see you soon._ ”

“All right. Have a good evening, say hello to Juliette for me.”

“ _I will. Bye, hon._ ”

The call ended, and thoughts of Daphne vanished from Castiel’s mind. He tossed the phone onto the empty workstation next to the fruit bowl.

He huffed and fiddled, moving things about, turning the heat down on the simmering pot of stew that sat upon the stove. Time went by, and he lost track of it, enjoying the dance that kept him on his feet.

He loved to cook. He loved to create this way, the same way Dean did. Hands: tools to make a gift.

There was a prize at the end of this dance; Castiel would get to watch Dean eat the food he made for him. And Benny too. Every person who ate what Castiel made them was joy anew. A gift offered in return.

Upon hearing the distant sound of a fist against the front door, he lifted his hand from the pot of rice, from which he was scooping out plump, hot grains.

Turning the stove off and leaving the pot where it was, he made his way down the hallway. He yawned, squinting, rubbing the back of his warm, waxy hand against his cheek. He hadn’t shaved since Wednesday morning, so his cheek was fluffy against his knuckles.

He opened the door, letting in the evening sunlight that grazed the hallway beyond his front door. Dean turned to look at him, removing his leather-clad arm from the door jamb, where he’d been leaning, waiting, staring out of the window at the city beyond.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, feeling his heart flutter. “Come inside, I’m making gumbo.”

Dean chuckled, entering with a definite swagger in his step. “Benny’s gonna love you.”

“He’s the one who taught me how to make it,” Castiel said, taking Dean by the back of the neck and bringing him close to greet him. “Shrimp,” kisskisskiss, “oyster, brown rice, okra,” kisskisskiss, “bay leaves - and Tabasco.”

Dean licked both their lips, breathing softly as he pulled away. “Hot,” he whispered, pecking Castiel’s lips once more. He laughed as he moved past, pulling Castiel’s hand with him so they trotted together, almost dancing their way down the hallway.

“You know, I love when you talk about food,” Dean said, eyes shining as he followed Castiel into the lounge beside the kitchen. “Or when you eat. Or - do anything with your mouth, for that matter.”

Castiel laughed, feeling the skin in the corner of his eyes crinkle for the first time since the previous night. Only Dean could make him do that. “Perhaps I should talk about food more often.”

“Maybe you should,” Dean agreed, throwing his jacket onto the couch, careless. He joined Castiel in the kitchen, walked to the sink, and began to run the tap to wash his hands. “Talk to me about dessert. I like dessert.”

✿

They cooked together, threw things into the pot. Celery, sauce, salt and pepper and cayenne seasoning. They messed about, hands on each other, reaching for food from the cupboard.

Cas narrated his cooking decisions like what he did was second nature to him; he sprinkled bay leaves over the pot, saying it was to keep the fishy taste from being overwhelming, and to add a _woodsy_ note. He knew what he was doing, and that was hot as hell. Gordon Ramsay had nothing on him. His shoulders were slung low, at ease with himself in the kitchen, the same way Dean was in his own.

When Castiel started talking French, Dean’s mouth was watering so heavily he was practically drooling. Not literally. But it felt like he should be.

Dean didn’t know what crème brûlée actually was, but when Cas said it, Dean didn’t care that the translation was apparently ‘burnt cream’. Castiel’s mouth worked on syllables that made Dean squirm in his boots, wanting that tongue to lick him with those words.

Castiel insisted he wasn’t any good at the language, it was more pidgin French than anything proper, but the _way_ he said it was cuisine for Dean’s ears. Like sex.

The fact that the food smelled delicious didn’t take anything away from that comparison.

“Je vais te faire l'amour... and de la crème va _couler_ entre vos jambes. Je vais lécher loin,” Castiel purred, eyes seductive, mouth curled in a dirty smirk.

Dean panted, his lower lip shaking as Castiel pressed into his space, the tip of his tongue licking the edge of Dean’s lips, licking him open. His breath was caught, in stasis. Oh, he liked it.

“And,” Dean shivered, hands softly holding onto the skin that showed under Castiel’s white shirt, “what does that mean?”

“You speak Spanish, it’s not so different,” Castiel said, sinking his teeth into Dean’s lower lip. “You tell me.”

“Love,” Dean said, watching Castiel’s pupils, seeing how they were dilated. “‘Amor’, means ‘love’. Cr- Um. Cream. _Crème_ ,” he corrected, attempting the French pronunciation. “‘Va’: ‘will’. Between - ‘entre’, that’s ‘between’.”

“‘Jambes’ is ‘legs’,” Castiel told him, rolling slow, delicious lips against Dean’s, not kissing, just touching. Seducing. “‘Lécher’ is ‘lick’.”

“Lick cream from b―” Dean trembled, feeling his cock pushing against Castiel’s denimed thigh. “Lick cream from between my legs.”

“That’s it,” Castiel said, a heated, devilish glint in his eye as he turned his head, breathing out against Dean’s lips. “But the cream...” He kissed a burning line of rolling, dragging kisses across Dean’s jaw, making it to his ear, to the skin under it - Dean gasped, feeling kisses pushed to the sensitive place behind the shell of his ear. Tender. “The cream isn’t dairy.”

Dean laughed, knocking Castiel away by accident as he curled over himself. “Oh my god,” he gasped, a hand against his stomach as another belly-laugh rumbled inside him, making him bark out again.

“Oh Christ - _Cas_ ,” he wheezed, wiping a dampness from his eyes. “‘ _The cream is not dairy_ ’,” he repeated, mimicking Castiel’s deep tone of voice. He had to grasp the kitchen island to keep from falling over, bellowing out another long, unending laugh.

“What was wrong with that?” Castiel asked, rolling his shirt sleeves up as he returned to the cooking pot before it boiled over. “I thought it was...”

“What, sexy?” Dean sniggered, scraping the lowest part of his lungs for breath. “It was. Up to ‘ _the cream is not dairy_ ’―”

He collapsed into a crouch, almost crying as he laughed harder.

He loved Cas, just for that. Gross, horrible seduction.

Dean had to pull himself together when there came a knock at the door. Castiel glanced towards the hallway as he sucked Tabasco sauce off his finger, then he looked to where Dean was hunched against a kitchen cupboard, cradling his aching stomach muscles.

“Could you get that, please? It’s Benny, I told him to bring some more Tabasco.”

Dean nodded, grunting as he stood up. He shook his limbs down, still chuckling breathily. “‘ _The cream is not dairy_ ’,” he muttered to himself as he made his way along the hallway. He would never let Castiel live that down. He might even tell Sam and Charlie, just to explain why he’d suddenly burst into raucous guffaws the next time they had strawberries and cream.

Dean opened the door, grinning, ready to give Benny a whack on the back and tell him the story.

It was not Benny.

An old man stood in the hall outside the penthouse door. Expensive grooming kept his full head of grey hair upright, a sweep of it falling across his forehead. His face was bony, thin from sudden weight loss, skin sagging like it had given up trying to stick to his bones once the muscle faded away. His suit was pinstriped, dark; he carried an umbrella with a carved handle, the beak of a gryphon visible from between his skeletal fingers.

Dean drew in a breath, all laughter evaporated. He met the man’s eye as the man met his.

His eyes were Castiel’s eyes. Blue.

“Sir,” Dean said, standing back immediately, leaving the doorway clear. “You must be Mr. Montmorency. Please, come in.”

The old man strode past in what could have been slow motion; he had a grace that Castiel ought to have had, but seeing it on the old man, Dean realised Castiel was clumsy in comparison. This man strode like he owned the place, and he did, quite literally.

Dean closed the door and followed in his wake, in his shadow, feeling dwarfed by this presence. This man’s cologne smelled like money, like diamonds. Dean knew how wealth showed on a person, and this man _bled_ it from his pores.

He said not a word, walking straight for the kitchen where Castiel was still working.

Castiel was beautiful in his kitchen; he was young, he was lithe. He flipped an empty pan in a hand, then muttered a few words of French, “Je vais boire _votre_ crème,” putting the pan onto the stove. He hummed, scruffing an open hand back through his dark hair, shaking it to add volume to the already perky mess of it.

Dean cleared his throat.

Castiel turned around, presumably with a word of hello for Benny, but his half-smile fell away the moment he set eyes on his father.

Deer in the headlights.

“Wh... Wh-what are you doing here?” Castiel said. His dark almost-beard did nothing to make him look older; in a room with his father, he looked like a child. Dean had never seen him look so small.

James Montmorency Senior pulled in a deep breath, preparing his first words. “I have come to talk with you,” he said. His voice was exactly how it sounded on TV newscasts: aged, immaculate. Intelligent and gritty. He spoke with the colour grey, every word written by some otherworldly scribe.

Castiel lowered his head, eyes unable to stop the quick dart towards Dean. He looked back to his father, inhaling. “About what?”

The old man turned around, slow, and he set his sharp eye on Dean. Dean almost backed away a step, afraid. This man was fearsome. Dean was out of his depth. If Castiel’s father knew about what was going on between them, it was all over. Everything. They probably wouldn’t even get to eat their gumbo.

“Father,” Castiel said, stepping out of the kitchen. He removed his eyes from Dean, and locked them to his father. “Why are you here? You call on Friday evenings, isn’t this something we can do over the phone later?”

“This is _not_ something we can do over the telephone,” Mr. Montmorency said, still looking at Dean. Dean gulped.

Castiel looked nervous too. He pulled at his sleeves, straightened his shirt, buttoned up the collar.

Mr. Montmorency’s gaze had not moved away from Dean. “Is this what I think it is, Emanuel?” he said, in a way that implied he had no doubt he was right. “This is why the dear Ms. Allen tells me you haven’t seen her?”

Castiel breathed out, looking down. Dean saw the betrayal here; Daphne had been telling tales. Dean clenched a fist, feeling the tension in the room pull taut, like someone had stepped onto a tightrope between the three of them.

Dean gulped again, not meeting the old man’s eye. He felt that he was being judged, looked up and down. Scruffy boots, a baggy t-shirt with a mud stain, an old plaid shirt that had never once been ironed. Scars on the inside of his elbow. He set an open hand around his inner arm, hiding the place the needle always sank in.

The apartment was silent. Nobody answered the question, for it was already answered.

“Well,” Mr. Montmorency said, a jaunt in his voice. He turned his face towards Castiel, setting his skinny form straighter, shoulders pulled back. “I see your taste in company is no better now than it was when you were six. Your mother always did say you had an inclination to play with dirt.”

Castiel’s jaw set. Dean himself felt a bile rising, the same fury in him that he sometimes felt towards his own father. He hadn’t felt it for years, and he hated that feeling. If there was one man who could make him cry, it was John Winchester. And if there was one man who he would never cry in front of, it was John. He made Dean conflicted. Vicious and fragile at once.

“Father,” Castiel said, coldly. “This is Dean Wesson. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh-ho.” The old man moved his feet so he could see both Dean and Castiel in the same view without turning any more than his head. “‘Friend’. How quaint.” He seemed amused, crinkles in the corners of his eyes just like Castiel’s, with the addition of thirty years, a bitter cancer, and a bitter personality.

Dean lowered his head, a bow to cover his projected resentment. “With all due respect, sir, I’m not here to sully your son.” He left out the ‘or whatever’ at the end of the sentence. “I’m a businessman like him.”

“And what is it that you sell, I wonder,” the old man said, knocking the carved head of his umbrella in the direction of Dean’s hand, where he still covered his scars, as well as the hickey that had not yet faded. “Heroin?”

Dean recoiled at the mention. “No, sir.” He shut his eyes. He felt cold. _Heroin, my poison, my freedom._ He reminded himself that that need was long gone. “I sell flowers.”

The man scoffed, Dean heard his surprise in the breath he let out. “Flowers? My, my. Emanuel, if you really meant to _hide_ your preferences from me, you might have attempted to choose some boy who was less - how should I put it - _flamboyant_.”

Dean snorted. He realised he’d made the sound out loud when Montmorency turned his amused fury on Dean, eyes lacking the warmth that Castiel’s always glowed with.

“Do you have something to say, young man?”

Dean opened his mouth, startled at being called a ‘young man’ for the first time since high school. He quirked a tiny grin, finding bravery that came hand-in-hand with stupidity. “Only that if you think flowers are gay, you should take another look at that perfect manicure of yours.” His smile fell, and he forced his lips straight. “Sir.”

Montmorency raised his grey eyebrows, showing his irises, piercing from under his drooping eyelids. He looked at Dean with a calm severity.

Dean’s mind took a break, letting him escape the situation, and he began to think about what kind of person Montmorency Senior was when he was younger. He would have looked like Castiel, but he’d be soured with greed, grasping hands and a wicked smile that Castiel did not inherit, except for in bed.

But Castiel spoke, a single second later, and Dean was dragged back to the present. “Father,” he said, a dangerous spike in his voice. Dean set his eyes on him, heartened by the fierceness in his wide shoulders, body squared like a bull, head down, holding a stare like he intended to smite his father just with that look alone. “Leave Dean alone.”

“I could give you the same instruction,” Montmorency said to his son. “But I dare say you would pay no heed. After all, when have you ever?”

He convulsed slightly, then twitched, beginning to cough. Dean let his protective hand slide off his own arm, concerned at the sudden change in the old man’s demeanour. He was cracking, slowly folding up like his hinges had bucked.

Castiel rushed forward before Dean could move, holding onto his father’s arms, then cradling his head with a hand as the man coughed, wheezed, hiccuped.

“Dean, get a chair,” Castiel snapped, eyes shooting towards the dining table on the far side of the lounge. Dean hurried over, hand already out to grab the back of the nearest black leather dining chair. He carried it back, still hearing the cough-cough-cough-wheeze of the old man.

Castiel hauled the chair into position, and with his other hand, guided his father to sitting. The man clung to him with his weak hand, shoulders shaking. Blood lined his lower lip, his thin and pasty skin flecked with red.

Dean ran to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He kept his eyes on the pair who rested together in the middle of the room, watching as Castiel pulled the silk handkerchief from Montmorency’s pocket, unfolding it to dab away the blood.

Castiel muttered thanks to Dean, not even looking as he took the glass from him, eyes filled with deep concern as he raised the glass edge to the old man’s lips. Montmorency sipped, the cough stopping as he swallowed.

His head fell forward. Castiel held the back of his neck and his shoulder, thumbs rubbing to soothe him. The old man breathed like he was forcing air through a curly straw with holes punched in it, laboured, hissing and grating in an odd rhythm. It sounded disgusting, repulsive. And it made Dean want to hold him too, whisper careful words against his fading skin the way Castiel now did.

Castiel put a kiss on his father’s forehead, then rested his chin against the same place as his sad eyes met Dean’s. Dean took the glass of water from Montmorency’s hand before it fell to the floor. It was still full, only a bloody lip print proving any water had been taken from it at all.

The situation had changed. The tension was no longer bound like a tightrope wire, but like loose cloth strings. Connecting them, holding them together as they got their bearings with each other.

“Father,” Castiel said again, mouth pressed closed as he met the old man’s eye, head ducked. “You accepted the fact that, for all the years you were together, my mother loved someone else.” He sighed slowly, mouth shutting again. “And you always let her. Why don’t you allow me the same grace? Dean is not the person you want me to love, but I want you to understand... that it’s not stopping.”

He flicked his gaze to meet Dean’s, and Dean felt stupid, standing there with a bloody glass, his presence useless.

He was curious as to why Castiel was still on this subject; surely his father’s health was the current issue. Yeah, Castiel’s words meant a lot to Dean, but seeing the old man’s current state, it seemed to him like Cas was kicking the guy while he was down.

The man croaked, his rasping voice breaking a buzzing silence. “I did not come here...” he wheezed, “to fight... with you.” He struggled to breathe, and Castiel fell to his knees at his father’s feet, resting his head on the man’s heart, listening to it.

Dean’s own heartbeat leapt in his chest - the man wasn’t dying right now, was he?!

No... No, he was fine, Castiel moved off and cupped his father’s old jaw in his hand.

“Then why did you come here?” Castiel asked, a new softness in his voice. All anger was gone. All fight was lost, unimportant.

“I came... to tell you...” Montmorency sighed, shaking, and he lowered his head to kiss Castiel’s forehead. “I saw the doctor again.” He grunted in pain, but Castiel could not do anything, just let the man lean on him. “I do not... have... a year.”

Castiel lifted his head, fear in his eyes. Dean’s breath stopped, seeing a look on Castiel’s face he knew he’d worn himself a few times: danger, panic - Sam’s life on the line.

“How long?”

Montmorency smiled, wrinkled and old and weak. “Less than four m... months.”

Castiel shut his eyes, breathing out through his open mouth as he wrapped his arms around the frail body sitting before him. He pressed his muzzle to his father’s suit, a kiss without passion or comfort; the old man couldn’t have felt it through the rich cloth he wore.

“The cancer,” Montmorency grunted, “is at stage four. Moved to... my intestines, my liver.”

“You still refused treatment,” Castiel breathed, eyes wide in astonishment, hurt, like his father had been committing treason. “Father, _why_ are you so stubborn?!”

“I... did not tell you,” the old man said, recovering enough from his cough to lean back in his chair, sighing as the back of it supported his bones. “I had three operations. Over the past few years. They could not obliterate every tumour, it kept returning.”

Castiel sank onto his feet, kneeling on the floor as if in prayer at an altar. Dean stood there dumbly, watching the scene, seeing it like a far-too-real soap opera.

“And,” Montmorency stroked a trembling hand down Castiel’s dark-haired jaw, gentle, “I am having treatment. Only for the pain. There is... admittedly, nothing they can do for me now. I’m old, Emanuel. I’m old and I’ve been dying ever since your mother passed away. I don’t _want_ to stay.”

Castiel took his father’s hands in his own; they had the same fingers, the same nails. He kissed those fingers, those crooked shapes curled inside his own. “Father... I―”

Someone knocked at the door, and Dean almost jumped out of his skin. At a glance from Castiel, he put the glass down on the closest kitchen island and made his way down the hallway.

It had to be Benny this time. Dean didn’t know what he was going to tell him when he opened the door, but it would certainly not be a joke about how terrible a flirt Castiel was.

Benny wore his black leather cap and his jacket, not his sheriff’s uniform. He raised his arm to show Dean what he’d brought, but Dean held up a hand before he said a word about the pack of beer he had with him.

“Cas’ dad is here,” Dean said, voice hushed and serious. “Come in.” He stood back, closing the door behind Benny. Benny waited for him to stand beside him, questions unsaid.

Dean’s eyes shot down the hallway to where he could hear low voices, the sounds occasionally punctuated by a rough wheeze.

“He’s got cancer,” he said, and Benny nodded, already aware. Dean wet his lips with his nervous tongue. “Stage four, he’s only got a few months.” Benny’s eyes widened slightly, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in, shocked, inadvertently taking in the scent of the spicy pot-luck gumbo sitting hot in the kitchen.

He turned and headed for the lounge ahead of Dean, and Dean would not admit to hanging back when they entered the room together, but he did.

He wanted to hide in another room, maybe go home.

Dean never got to say goodbye to his father. He didn’t even get a day, let alone a few months.

And yet, as he was standing on the carpet and watching Benny remove his hat to greet Montmorency with a soft word, Dean wondered if he ever actually wanted to see his father go.

He never loved John, even though he thought he did; he thought obeying orders was love.

John may have loved him, but he did not show it well. Dean was his instrument, his locksmith. A soldier. He was not his son.

Saying goodbye like this would have been painful. Castiel was crouched before the weakened man, crying into his lap. Dean could not see himself sitting that way. As much as he thought his relationship with John was parallel to the relationship Castiel had with James, it was not true.

There was love here, love going both ways. Montmorency abused Castiel in ways Dean had never heard of, wanted things from him that Castiel was strong enough to refuse to provide. Maybe the old man was just breaking apart in his sickness, asking for things he could never get for himself. Like John did. Needing Dean’s young hands to do his dirty work.

But Castiel truly loved his father. Or, at least, it looked it. Those were not crocodile tears, those were tears of grief.

Dean put his hands into his pockets, watching Benny set his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Dean’s hand should be there, he was part of this. He was meant to be the shadow who held Castiel’s body up when his strength started to wane.

Of all the things he was scared of, Dean had not known until this moment that he was scared of love.

Some things he’d never learned. Some things came naturally. But he did not have this capacity. He couldn’t do this.

He felt Benny’s grip on his arm, and Dean blinked in surprise, not having seen his friend move to his side. Benny looked at Dean with solemn eyes, wearing a solid expression on his wide bearded face, doing his best to reassure Dean.

“Go to him, brother,” Benny said, face turned away from the other two, who were now talking in slow words, quiet and private. “Just put yourself near him. Be there.”

“Since when do you know about this crap?” Dean snarled under his breath. “You, who’s single and all wrapped up in your work all the time. Huh?”

Benny’s expression didn’t change. He squeezed Dean’s arm again. “You forget what I do as my work. Being a sheriff, you see a lot of broken hearts. Don’t break his. He’s worth keeping, I promise you that, brother. _Be there_.” He slapped Dean gently on the back, swaying him in the direction of the wheezing breath, the breath that struck terror into Dean’s blood. Things he couldn’t deal with.

Benny pushed him again.

Dean inhaled a full breath, tall and muscled, every bit a soldier walking into battle as he made to stand beside Castiel.

Castiel had stopped crying; he now spoke in whispers, murmurs, his eyes on his father, so involved in the way he looked back that Dean hated to intrude.

But he didn’t need to say a thing; Castiel turned his face up to him, nodding slightly as he put a hand backwards, wrapping it around Dean’s ankle. Basic contact. Dean was there for him, he hadn’t failed.

He could do the love thing. It hurt, but he could do it.

Castiel licked his lips, unfolding from his kneeling position to stand up, still holding his father’s hand. He met Dean’s gaze, and Dean saw his eyes were red-rimmed. “My father and I need to talk in private. There are... matters to attend to, much sooner than we expected.”

Dean nodded, resting an open hand on Castiel’s lower back, feeling his warmth through his starched white shirt. “You do what you need to, Cas. We’ll be out here.” He glanced to Benny, who nodded, hands in his jacket pockets.

Castiel forced a grateful smile, then bent down to help his father to his feet. The man creaked and groaned, another bout of horrendous coughing shaking him on his feet.

Dean watched them hobble away, the glass of water in Castiel’s hand. They moved towards one of the unused bedrooms or drawing rooms that broke off from the oak hallway.

“Eat without me,” Castiel called back, turning his head to catch Dean’s eye before they disappeared past the first wall. “Leave if you need to. We might be a while.”

Dean heard the old man’s polished shoes tapping on the wood, accompanied by the practically undetectable padding of Castiel’s bare feet.

Then he heard a faraway door click shut, and he deflated, eyes falling to the gryphon-headed umbrella that lay discarded on the carpet. He bent to pick it up, feeling the metal spines inside it flex as his fingers gripped them together.

Benny puffed out a long breath, removing his black jacket, eyes focused on nothing as he thought. “I’d say some of this gumbo might ease this fretting up a bit. You good for that?”

Dean gathered a breath together, vaguely nodding as he flicked his eyes to Benny. “What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, okay. Food.”

Benny smiled, but it was as forced as Castiel’s had been. “Guess tonight’s just not the night for a party.”

“Mm.” Dean fingered at the pack of beer Benny had put onto the kitchen bench, but he didn’t move to open it.

He thought about John, imagining him old and dying like Montmorency was. It was a sickening prospect. Not only that John may have lived that long, kept on training Dean for as long as that, but that Dean would have had to see him die.

Aside from the gun under the door, Dean never got proof that his father was gone for good, but he sure as hell didn’t want to find out he wasn’t. Dean was better with his dad out of the picture.

Maybe Castiel would be, too.

But it hurt that his old man had to die before they’d know.

✿

Dinner with Benny was silent and brooding. Dean couldn’t find words to start a conversation. The mood lightened somewhat when Benny switched on the TV and an episode of _Gilmore Girls_ that Dean recognised was playing, but aside from an occasional quiet chuckle, making eye contact to check that the other was amused too, they barely looked at each other.

The moment they heard a door click open and distant voices approaching, Dean turned the TV off and got to his feet, rolling his overshirt sleeves down and straightening crinkles out of his t-shirt. There was nothing to be done about the mud stain on his clothing, but he was as presentable as he could possibly get.

Montmorency shuffled back into the lounge, hanging on Castiel’s arm. The grace from earlier had been completely lost. It was like Dean was watching a different man, this one decrepit - not a gryphon, but a weakling mouse with a sparrow’s beak.

Dean offered the man his umbrella with both hands, and Montmorency made an effort to take it from him with both hands, too, letting go of Castiel.

Montmorency turned his eye from Dean to Benny, and let free a hushed wheeze before he opened his mouth to speak. “Benjamin, do you... _trust_ this man? Dean.”

Dean looked over at Benny, who skulked out of the shadow of the hallway, back into the living room. His shirt was the colour made if his usual beige-brown sheriff’s uniform met forest green. It was a natural colour on him. Under the light in the room, he looked at ease, part of the place the same way the flowers in their vases around the room were.

“I do, sir,” Benny said, nodding as his gaze skimmed to Dean. His eyes twinkled, giving a friendly smile that didn’t meet his mouth, but was clear to Dean in any case. “I would trust him with my life.”

Dean’s mouth sank open, stunned. Honoured, of course. But perhaps that was an undeserved trust. Surely Benny didn’t mean it.

Yet, Dean knew Benny’s eyes. That was his honest twinkle.

“That,” said Montmorency, drawing Dean’s attention back to him, “is pleasing to know. Very pleasing indeed.”

Dean’s fingers twitched, so curious about what had transpired in Castiel’s conversation with his father. Was this acceptance? Was it okay that Dean was head over heels for the man’s only son?

Montmorency gave one rough cough, mouth closed to stop a spill of blood escaping. Dean felt pity for him, at a loss for anything else to feel instead.

Castiel took his father to the door, and Dean held the door open for them as Castiel helped the old man outside into the hall. Montmorency stood there as Castiel pulled his shoes on, not bothering to find socks.

“I’ll be back later tonight,” Castiel said, his voice echoing back to Dean as he hurried into the hallway. “Lock the apartment for me when you leave.”

“Wait, you’re going?” Dean called after Castiel, seeing his white shirt catch shapes from the city lights that lit up the night skyline. “Want me to come with you?”

Montmorency stopped in his tracks, a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He looked his son in the eye, and Dean just about heard him say, “Stay. I will be fine.”

“But, Father―”

“I will be fine,” the old man repeated. He inhaled, pulled himself up to his full height, no longer hunching. Dean could see it was an act, he was trying to show Castiel he would be okay without him. Castiel didn’t fall for it any more than Dean did, but Montmorency pushed him away, starting to walk towards the elevator. “Go. You have a right to enjoy your evening.”

“I have a right to a lot of things,” Castiel said, firmly. “I don’t think enjoying this evening is on the menu. But looking after my only family is.”

The old man stopped again, grasping a fist into Castiel’s shirt, tight enough that the cloth untucked from his belt. Dean started forward from the doorway, worried Castiel would find himself with a bruised face; his father’s grip was threatening.

His face said otherwise, though, so Dean stayed back. His old eyes were gentle, his jaw slack, mouth sad.

A shaking, bony finger was laid in the direction of Dean, and at Benny, who lurked behind Dean.

“Them,” the old man said. “Those people are your family too.”

Castiel’s mouth became small, questions coming out in the shape of a silent whistle. He looked over at Dean, his blue eyes brightened by the light of the city through the long window behind him. Dean looked back, seeing something very special in Castiel.

Family.

Castiel saw it too.

He breathed out - then turned and stepped toward his father, who was trying to leave again.

“Let me take you downstairs, at least,” Castiel said, taking his father’s arm before he strode any further. Montmorency leaned his weight on his umbrella, paused, then finally nodded. Castiel slumped, taking the reprieve.

“I will be a few minutes,” he said, words directed to Dean. Dean nodded, and watched Castiel and his elder walk together to the elevator.

He watched the doors close behind them, and he stared out at the now-empty hallway, distant lines of traffic glowing red and yellow paths in the corner of his eye.

“Come inside, brother. We can warm up some gumbo, he’ll want to eat when he gets back.”

Dean nodded, still watching the hallway as he closed the door.

✿

Castiel barely ate. He chewed on a shrimp until he looked like he was about to choke, then forced himself to swallow. Dean watched with a difficult concern, holding his teaspoon over the tiny crème caramel that Castiel had prepared last night. He couldn’t eat, not when Castiel looked like that.

Dark shadows had appeared across Castiel’s eyes, he couldn’t look up for any more than a few seconds before his eyes would well with tears and he had to look down again. His mouth was pressed into a line for the sake of keeping it still; Dean would see it quiver every time Castiel attempted to put food into his mouth.

“Hey,” he whispered, across the kitchen island where they sat. Benny glanced up, realised the call was not for him, then ducked his head down once more.

Castiel blinked, so Dean knew he’d heard him.

“Hey,” Dean said again. “Want me to do the choo-choo train, or do you think you’ll actually finish your dinner sometime this century?”

Castiel’s lips twitched up on one side, but he didn’t raise his eyes. “I don’t feel much like eating.”

“I can see that,” Dean said. “It’s great, by the way. You’re a great cook.”

Castiel slurped some of the soupy liquid off his spoon. He lapped it off his lip after he swallowed, and started at the kitchen before him, not focusing on any one thing. “My father never thought so.”

“Maybe he should properly try some of your food,” Dean suggested. “Make him something special. The, uh, pudding thing. This is pretty good.” He tapped his spoon on the wobbly top of his dessert, making some of the liquid caramel slop down the well-formed sides of the creamy pudding.

Castiel forced yet another smile, which was all he’d managed all evening.

Dean hoped it wouldn’t be like this forever - he was already missing those crinkled eyes, that tumbling, fun laugh that Castiel made. Besides that, Dean missed the feeling _he_ got when Castiel laughed. Seeing him happy was the best feeling in the world, just like it was with Sam.

Benny tipped his pudding bowl back and downed the remains of his caramel, setting his spoon and his bowl onto the bar as he stood up. “I hate to be the first to go, but Madeline shouldn’t be on her own all night. It’s already late.”

“Yeah, yeah, you head home,” Dean said, in Castiel’s stead, since he didn’t want to talk. “I’ll uh, I’ll tuck Cas in.”

Castiel smirked, and Dean stood up to pet the back of Castiel’s neck. His skin was hot, but it seemed more like a fever than natural body warmth.

Benny planted a firm, comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Hang in there, brother. We’ve all been there. Dean―” Benny caught Dean’s eye, gave him a small nod, “he knows what to do.”

Dean had to frantically mouth at Benny, “ _No I don’t!_ ” - but Benny smiled in any case, patting Castiel’s turned back once more, before striding past Dean and towards the exit.

Dean followed his friend, talking in a hushed whisper, “I have no fucking clue what to do, Benny! How are you meant to deal with people who are falling to shit?”

Benny stood beside Dean in the oak hallway, one hand on the door handle. “The same way Sarah helped you. And how you help Sam.” He huffed a tiny laugh, amused at something. “Same way your damn cat with the nasty fur condition looks after her kits.”

Dean took in a breath and held it, and kept holding it until he found the courage to nod. When he did, Benny clapped him on the shoulder, bringing him in for a tight hug, which Dean hastily moved his arms to return. He pressed his cheek into Benny’s jacket, feeling his glasses bending, and the rim of Benny’s cap tucking against his ear.

They pulled away. Dean allowed Benny to chuck him under the chin affectionately. He smiled weakly, holding the door as Benny left.

“He might need a few days,” Benny said, subdued as he stood in the hallway, peering out at the city far below. “I’ll come by if I can, but chances are, I won’t make it out much. Things ain’t any less crazy down at the station on days my non-cop buddies need me.”

“Yeah. It’s cool. Thanks for dropping by tonight. Sorry it... turned out this way.”

Benny shook his head. “I’ll see ya, brother.”

“See ya.”

Dean closed the door before Benny reached the elevator, and turned back towards the kitchen.

Castiel was in the bathroom, and Dean waited patiently for him to return. In the meantime, he cleared up the leftover gumbo, putting it into containers to keep in the fridge, as well as fetching separate pots for the uneaten pudding.

Castiel was quite a long time. Dean heard the shower running, so took that time to do the tidying up, putting aside his hatred of food-smeared plates to rinse them and put them into the dishwasher.

He heard Castiel crying in the bathroom, the sound of his low voice carrying through the walls.

He didn’t know whether Cas would hate him if he stripped off to join him under the falling water, wrap his arms around him and hold him close. Since he couldn’t guess at Castiel’s reaction, he didn’t go. He stayed in the kitchen, and he fixed everything else. He couldn’t fix a broken man.

When Castiel shuffled into the lounge, a towel slung on his shoulders underneath his damp hair, wearing pyjama bottoms and a dark grey t-shirt, Dean reached for the TV remote. He set the channel on the first late-night talk show he found, and he let Castiel magnetise himself to the couch.

Dean left him there for a while. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth with his own toothbrush, washing up enough that he wouldn’t look or smell like a carcass come morning.

Going into an empty bedroom, he kicked his shoes off, shed his plaid shirt, then groped in the dark to pick up a top blanket, messing up the perfectly-made bed. He returned to Castiel, went around the room closing all the curtains, then sat down beside him on the couch.

The sound of studio laughter filled the room at an extremely low volume. Castiel was barely watching, his eyes were fixed on the huge screen but not following the movement on it. Dean watched him, watched that waxen face.

“C’mere,” he muttered eventually, lying back against one arm of the couch. He offered an arm towards Castiel, smiling when Castiel slipped his towel away and lay against Dean’s chest, one hand on his heart. Dean flung the blanket over them both, and it brought a cold draft at first, but once it settled, it gave them a rich warmth.

Dean took his glasses off, folded them and put them on the floor beside the couch, closing his eyes.

Castiel pulled in a deep, deep breath, and Dean peeked down at him, watching his eyelashes flutter. He stroked a soft hand through Castiel’s damp hair, still feeling an underlying fever. He hoped Cas wouldn’t catch cold. In an attempt to fend off any looming sickness, he wrapped his arms around Castiel, cuddling him.

Castiel smiled. “Clap twice,” he said.

“What?”

“Put your hands out of the blanket and clap twice, loudly.”

Wondering if Castiel was delirious, Dean did as he said, in case he wasn’t. He gasped as the lights in the room turned off, all at once.

“Holy crap, you have clap sensors?”

“Mm-hm,” Castiel murmured, wriggling his pliant body against Dean’s. “You smell like Tabasco.”

“I knew there was something Benny forgot to bring,” Dean grinned, putting a kiss on Castiel’s temple. “But there’s a six-pack of beer in the fridge if you feel like drowning your sorrows.”

“Hmm,” Castiel sighed. The studio laughter filled the lounge again, somehow comforting, homely. “Dean, would you kiss me?”

Dean kissed his temple again, unable to reach anywhere else.

Castiel whimpered under his breath. “Again.”

Dean kissed him.

“Again.”

Dean crushed a handful of damp hair under his hand, sank lower down the couch so he could kiss Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel whispered, “Again.”

Dean kissed his upper lip, Castiel’s fuzzy facial hair tickling his chin.

Castiel grasped Dean’s t-shirt. His fingernails were blunt but his grip was tense. “Dean, again,” he wailed, profound emotion in his voice. Dean felt like crying just from hearing him sound like that, terrible. He hauled Castiel as close to him as he could possibly be, and he kissed him. Deeply, intensely. He poured every secret he ever kept into that kiss, shaping every word he had never had the balls to say.

He stopped when Castiel fell away to sob, tears pouring down his cheeks, cool damp drips falling onto Dean’s throat. Dean stroked him, let him cry.

Castiel wept, and Dean held him.

Castiel cried himself to sleep, and he was asleep long, long before Dean got anywhere near close to doing the same. Dean did nothing about the itchy tears that dried on his skin, because he dared not move and disturb Castiel.

Dean thought a lot. He thought about a lot of things, and he thought for a very long time.

Perhaps his life flashed before his eyes, in slow motion, playing out to the soundtrack of a midnight infomercial. Perhaps he found the secrets of the universe on the ceiling of Castiel’s penthouse apartment, but whatever he thought about, he never remembered it.

Dean sank away into blankness, where it was warm and safe.

He woke up in the morning with Castiel in his arms. The last thing he remembered was clapping the lights off and curling around the man he loved, letting him pour his heart out against his shoulder.

No universe of thought filled his mind. He didn’t need a universe.

He slipped out of Castiel’s arms, stretching his sore limbs in the filtered morning sunlight that strained through the curtains. He put on his glasses, turned the TV off, then made animal- and flower-shaped pancakes as quietly as possible. After cleaning up the kitchen after himself, he left the entire pancake stack on the table for Castiel to find when he woke up.

He put all his clothes back on, then he let himself out of the apartment.

The lady on the front desk of the building smiled at him like she knew everything that had transpired the previous night. Dean smiled awkwardly, and guessed that she’d probably been watching the surveillance tapes for the hallway. Creepy, sure. But he felt okay knowing that someone had his back. All of their backs. Looking out for them. Protecting them.

He only wished he didn’t have work to get to. He had his own protecting to do with Cas, and he couldn’t be there to do it.

They could have a night together, here and there. But maybe guardian angels couldn’t stick around forever.


	21. Finding Home

That evening was quiet. By some unspoken agreement, they convened in Castiel’s painting studio as the sun went down, stripped to single shirts and jeans, rolled up their sleeves, and finished off the paintings they started days before.

They moved together to finish the finger painting, filling in the empty spaces at the sides. Castiel matched colours and continued the shapes around the edges of the canvas, making it look like they had never stood there and randomly thrown colour and hoped it would look like something.

It _did_ look like something, now. It looked like one of Dean’s bouquets, but one where every flower was a species unknown to Earth. They made things up, they created in a different way. “ _Art_ ,” was the word that Castiel whispered against Dean’s neck. They made art together.

The yellow splodge on the other canvas that was meant to be a sunflower actually _became_ a sunflower. Dean stood and watched as Castiel turned the canvas into a sunny windowsill ledge, an open window overlooking a grassy garden, dots of colour for flowers amongst the undefined blades of green.

“There,” Dean said, rubbing a hand down the back of Castiel’s forearm as he made the final touches, hours and hours later. He put his cheek against Castiel’s from behind, wrapping his arms around his waist and rocking them both side to side, trying not to poke Castiel’s eye with his glasses frames.

“It’s not my best work,” Castiel muttered, tossing his paintbrush bristles-first into a mucky jar of water. “Still life isn’t something I’m usually inclined to paint.”

“But you usually work from your imagination rather than from what’s in front of you,” Dean guessed, nudging his head towards the painting of the falling angel, then back to their newly completed ones. Both canvases showed up as glossy in some places, where the lights on the ceiling caught the wet paint in soft yellow-orange. “You do it pretty well.”

Castiel shrugged, a shoulder bumping Dean’s chin. “This one is from memory.”

Dean squeezed him. “Memory of what?”

Castiel hummed sadly, removing himself from Dean’s embrace, only to turn around and return to his arms, this time with their chests pressed together. “My mother loved sunflowers. Every Sunday we would walk back from Church and she would stop at the flower market.”

Dean breathed out, putting a puzzle together, figuring out more pieces of Castiel. “You got me a sunflower at the market when we went together.”

Castiel nodded, continuing to rock their bodies, his bare toes caressing the inner side of Dean’s right foot. “She would buy them for me. But also for the man she loved.”

“Not your father.”

Castiel nodded again. “Not my father.” He sighed, humid breath puffing under Dean’s t-shirt collar. Dean closed his eyes, no longer watching the way the painted sun caught on the painted yellow petals. “She told me sunflowers are for the most precious of people. The way the sun makes everything come alive, brings joy and warmth and happiness.”

“So do snow days and hot cocoa,” Dean chuckled, grinning against the strong muscle in Castiel’s neck. “But I get what you mean.”

“She said,” Castiel was smiling, “sunflowers are for those who make you happy. Like the recipes she gave me. She’d tell me things about gifts, and giving, and being the one to offer first.”

“She must’ve made a nice hostess,” Dean reasoned.

“She did. She, um―” Castiel pulled away, a bright, tiny smile set on his lips as his arms held onto Dean. “She’d let me help when she invited guests over. I’d lay the table and make napkins into swans. Write out the table cards, so people knew where to sit. Her guests always said it was a nice touch, letting me do those things. I only... heh, only caught on years later that they were terrible, and she was letting me do it because she loved me.

“She didn’t hide who I was. She wouldn’t _let_ me hide.” Castiel shrugged, his smile now sad, yet unquestionably lovely. “I never needed to lie to her.”

“I barely remember my mom,” Dean said, eyes on Castiel’s throat as he swallowed. “I was only four when she died. Sammy was still a baby.”

“I’m sorry you never knew her.”

Dean’s lip tugged up on one side. “I knew her a bit. I still remember what she smelled like. Birds-of-paradise. I didn’t even realise what the name of the flower was until I worked at Cupid’s Bow and started making things.”

“That’s... the flower I gave you,” Castiel realised, eyes widening. “I asked your favourite, and you said birds-of-paradise.”

Dean nodded, tucking his nose against Castiel’s so he could kiss the highest part of his cheek. He nuzzled against him, and slowly, he breathed out against Castiel’s face. “She’s not the only person those flowers remind me of, now.”

Castiel’s eyelashes fluttered, also putting together a puzzle. Dean felt his eyelashes settle as he figured it out. “They remind you of... me?”

Dean kissed him. “You and me, Cas. My favourite thing.”

✿

Dean slept with Castiel again, their bodies cocooned together, snuggled under the comforter that was spread over the mattress in the studio. There were no curtains in the room, so when the sun came up the following morning, spooling strands of sunlight cast themselves across the dust in the air, the new warmth pulling particles upwards upon pockets of heat.

Dean cracked his eyes open first, feeling and seeing golden sunlight clinging to his eyelashes from the side.

This apartment was monumentally bewitching; it was easy to imagine lying on a bed in a different country, seeing a different sun. The fairy lights criss-crossed above them could be ivy; if he didn’t look down off the bed, he could imagine him and Cas lying in the middle of a stable, translucent corrugated ceiling breaking the dawn over the heads of sleeping horses.

Dean breathed the scent of a room that had settled since last night, and it no longer smelled like paint. It smelled like history, and the warmth of a home. It smelled like Castiel.

Even though this place always did smell like Cas, Dean supposed that _this_ apartment was not the home Castiel wanted. He had only hung the one painting on the wall, and nothing else here was personalised.

The bedrooms were unused, and when he slept in his own bed, he shut himself in a cupboard so he didn’t see where he lived. It was weird, and it led Dean to believe that Castiel was waiting for something. Waiting, maybe searching for a different place to live. Like this place was a bridge between homes; a temporary fantasy, the same way that Dean’s imagined ivy and horses were.

No matter how much Dean learned about Cas, he was still a mystery. Dean wanted to solve him. But he knew, just upon entertaining such a metaphor, that some mysteries would be left open-ended. The puzzle wouldn’t have edges, it kept growing, developing.

Dean had fallen in love with a man who didn’t end. He had a past, but he also had a future: unwritten.

Then, as Dean stroked the side of Castiel’s sleeping face, he became to appreciate where his thoughts were taking him. He wanted to be part of that future. He might never solve the puzzle, the riddle, but he’d collect up his pieces. All the little bits of _Cas_. And eventually, he’d know what his picture made.

Unlike all of the paintings they’d made together, the still life, the mess of colours and the vague shapes that bordered on a representation of something recognisable, Dean wanted to be _in_ the picture. One day he’d have a canvas across a wall, too: his own image, painted by Castiel’s loving hand. The same love he’d put into the sketch he drew.

And it wouldn’t be these walls. It would be their own place.

Their own home.

Together.

✿

He snuck out while Castiel was still asleep, for the second morning in a row. He left a cooked omelette in the pan for Cas’ breakfast, but didn’t have paper to write down a goodbye, so he texted Castiel. He told him he’d come back tonight, if that was okay by him.

Castiel texted back a few hours later, when Dean was helping Missouri Moseley take a second batch of bruised flowers down to her car for the kids at the orphanage. Dean flipped open the phone with one hand, still holding the lid of Missouri’s trunk with the other.

“What does that boy have to say now?” Missouri asked, peering over Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Dean jerked back, clutching the phone to his chest protectively.

Missouri lifted her eyebrows. “Well?”

Dean tugged at the corner of his shirt collar, letting some sunshine grace the back of his neck. “I asked him if he wanted to see me tonight, is all.”

“And?” Missouri gazed at him, more waiting for him to speak than for him to actually answer the question. She seemed to know everything, and Dean had given up trying to work out how she did it.

“And he said sure,” Dean said, shrugging, like it wasn’t a big deal, or the sight of Castiel’s name on his phone didn’t make his heart beat faster. “I was thinking maybe, like, a movie marathon. It’s Sunday, so I’m shutting up early today. Might cheer him up.”

Missouri hummed a considerative note, thumping the trunk of her car closed. Dean kept his eyes on the mixed colours of the flowers inside the trunk, seeing them through the glass.

“How is Emanuel doing nowadays?” Missouri asked, resting a warm, soft hand on Dean’s younger knuckles as he held his phone. “I heard about his father. Not long left.”

“Mr. Montmorency told you?”

Missouri shook her head, almost pitying. “Nobody told me, honey. Sometimes we hear things we weren’t told.”

Dean’s lip curled. “Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.”

Missouri narrowed her eyes at him, poking him in the chest. “You watch your mouth, boy. I don’t expect you to understand, what with your scientific mind and whatnot.”

Dean shrugged. “Cas is into science, but he’s not totally shut out to the... whatever it is you listen to. Religious psychic radio.”

Missouri chuckled, petting Dean’s cheek until he ducked his head to get away.

“Nah,” Dean said, pursing his lips, glancing down at the phone in his hands, which reflected white sunlight off the screen and onto his glasses, making his eyes water. “Nah, he’s not really doing so well. Cas - Emanuel, I mean.” He glanced at Missouri, then back to his phone, beginning a reply text. “But what can I really do, you know?”

Missouri squished a hand around Dean’s shoulder, reassuring. “Oh, there’s plenty. But you seem on track, either way.”

Dean kept his eyes down, sending the text. He’d meet Cas as soon as he got off work, and he was going to borrow some of Charlie’s DVDs when he went.

Missouri pulled Dean into a hug before he was expecting it, and he almost dropped his phone. He stood there and let shawls and spicy scents envelop him, and at last he was lifted away, and he smiled down at the woman.

“You hold onto that heart of yours,” she said. “You hold _tight_.” She clenched an empty fist, firm and forceful, fingernails pressing lighter dents into her dark skin.

Dean nodded, accepting her weird advice for what it was: don’t let Cas fly away.

As he watched Missouri drive off, he put together another piece of that peculiar puzzle: Cas couldn’t fly without his wings. He was an angel on his wall, wings burned off.

It was all incredibly symbolic, but, as Castiel had said, that was how he liked to paint. Dean was learning his language - not French, but symbolism. Things Castiel did, things he made, it all _meant_ something.

Maybe Dean wasn’t meant to stop Cas flying away from _him_ , but to help him go. _Be_ his wings. Build his bridge to the next home.

Really, he already knew that, he’d put it together weeks ago. He’d known for so long how he felt for Cas, but the time was nearing for it all to come into effect. For it all to _mean_ something.

And that something was coming. He had a heart to hold on to. Secrets to keep.

Maybe soon, he’d know what the finished puzzle was meant to look like.

✿

They sat together on the couch later that afternoon, and Dean did it all properly. He closed the drapes, made popcorn, turned his phone off, and made sure they sat close enough that Dean could sling his arm around Castiel’s shoulders.

They started with one of his favourite movies, which Castiel promptly informed him began too unhappily.

“Who starts a movie by telling the audience all the characters in the movie are dead? At least in ‘ _The Sixth Sense_ ’ they had the decency to wait until the end.”

Dean rolled his eyes, turning up the volume. “You’re not watching it right. They’re not _dead_ -dead, as in I-see-dead-people kinda dead, they’re real people who are literally dead at the present time. It’s a historical movie, come on. Don’t knock it already.”

Castiel huffed, shoving popcorn into his mouth with two fingers.

They continued their attempt to watch _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_. Castiel was not very good at watching movies. He asked too many questions, and he crunched his popcorn too loudly, and it made Dean very annoyed.

“Oh my _god_ , just shut up and watch it,” Dean snarled, exasperated beyond belief. “Cowboy hats and explosions are _sexy_ , all right?”

Castiel sneered at him, which made Dean think he was doing it on purpose.

They gave up on cowboy movies immediately after that, and Dean sadly nudged his stack of them back into the bag he’d brought. They’d come back to the genre later. Once Cas knew more about the era, he’d appreciate them better for sure.

They tried watching _Schindler's List_ , but less than fifteen minutes in, they realised maybe Charlie wasn’t the best person to determine exactly what they watched. Dean lunged for the Disney movies, glad he had an excuse to watch _Mulan_ again.

But Dean only got as far as selecting the menu screen before Castiel’s landline phone rang, shrill and invasive and perfectly horrible.

Castiel groaned, his head falling back against the couch backrest. “I’m not in. It’ll be Meg, asking if I’m still alive.”

“When was the last time you went into work?” Dean asked, fingering at Castiel’s beard. “Not that I’m complaining, I like the peach fuzz - but don’t you have a job?”

Castiel squinted at the ringing phone, which might as well have been shaking and rattling on its perch, like in a cartoon. “I don’t get paid except for stock revenue and through my inheritance. I’m sure I told you this before.”

Dean shrugged, having lost that bit of information somewhere down the line.

Castiel glanced at Dean, then back to the phone, standing up unwillingly, leaving Dean with the bowl of popcorn kernels. “I live off the income from selling stocks and shares,” he said, dragging his hand through Dean’s hair as he passed, like he was stroking a cat. “The company does well.”

“Yeah, but you told me your people aren’t running it properly.”

“They aren’t,” Castiel agreed, hand poised over the Bakelite phone, similar to the one Dean had in the shop. Castiel didn’t pick up yet, let it keep ringing as he wiggled his fingers over it, debating whether to answer. “Oh, I really don’t want to―” He gave in and picked up the phone.

He put it to his ear, and Dean watched his expression change from one of foreboding to one of disappointment, which was odd. “Daphne,” he said, and Dean stopped chewing his popcorn.

Castiel lowered his eyes, playing with the curly cord of the telephone. “I am... I’m... um. Yes, I’m sick.” He coughed twice. “You were right, I did come down with something.” He coughed again, for emphasis.

Dean finished his mouthful of popcorn and set down the bowl, eager to hear every word.

Castiel swallowed, meeting Dean’s eyes, then turning his face away. “Would you - Daphne, would you call me back? Ten seconds. I just need to change extension.” He nodded. “Yup. Okay, thank you.”

He hung up, and without another look at Dean, he fled the room, shutting the door to his box bedroom.

Dean hadn’t even realised there was a phone in that room, but when the apartment phone rang again a few seconds later, it only rang once before it was answered.

Dean crept off his place on the couch, sneaking towards the door on tiptoes. The sunlight in the living room was subdued and earthy; the sun was already past its daytime peak, and the curtains filtered the place with fibrous tones, making it seem warmer than it was. Dean stepped into a stripe of light, blocking it with the shadow of his leg as he finally made it to the door.

“...No... no, my father did come to see me,” Dean heard, muffled and quiet through the door. “I drove out to see him yesterday afternoon, that’s why I wasn’t in.”

A pause. Then, “Nobody else. No, I haven’t had any visitors.” Another pause. “Who, Dean? Uhmm, no? No, I haven’t... seen him. No.”

Dean bit his lip. Daphne _had_ to know, right? She’d been reporting to Castiel’s father, maybe Castiel’s father was reporting back. Dean and Castiel were being watched by everyone. Daphne had to be able to tell that Cas was lying his guts out.

Dean heard Castiel’s short intake of breath. “No, it’s okay! I’m fine, Daphne, you don’t need to bring soup. I made gumbo a couple of nights ago, there’s still some left. It’s... it’s southern American. Things in water. Usually shellfish or meat.” He huffed. “Yes, like soup.” A pause. “No, it wasn’t the shellfish. I’m really not that sick.”

Dean realised two things at once. First of all, his leg blocking the sun meant Castiel could see he was standing right outside the door. Second, was that Castiel was practically repeating everything Daphne said aloud, for Dean’s benefit. He wasn’t hiding in his room so Dean couldn’t hear, he was hiding so Dean wouldn’t interrupt. Dean smirked, feeling privileged that Castiel was including him in this.

He could hear Castiel’s feet on the carpet; he had begun to move from side to side, probably pacing.

“No - no, but tonight―” A flair of panic infected Castiel’s voice. “Yes, of course I want to see you.” The pacing stopped. “Tonight. No, I can’t tonight.” Pause. “Because I’m busy.” He coughed. “And sick.”

There came a heavy _flump_ from beyond the door, which Dean could only assume was Castiel flopping back onto his bed in frustration. “I already have plans. Most of which involve watching movies and eating popcorn.”

Dean rested spread fingers on Castiel’s white door, almost smiling. He was glad Castiel was so intent on spending time with him, but he was also annoyed that Cas was endangering them both by avoiding Daphne. She didn’t deserve to be shunned, no matter how many things she’d relayed to Castiel’s father.

“Daphne,” Castiel muttered, practically begging. “I prefer to watch movies alone. I eat popcorn too loudly and I don’t understand parts of the plot, I have to rewind to understand.”

Ah, thought Dean. That was why Cas asked so many questions.

Castiel’s hand was over his face, Dean could barely hear him through his murmuring, “You can’t come over. I’m not at home tonight, I won’t be here.”

Well, if that wasn’t a last-resort excuse, Dean didn’t know what was.

“Some other time then,” Castiel said, his voice clearer as he took a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you for calling, feel free to tell Meg I’ve died.” He forced a laugh. “Yes. Okay, thanks. Bye.”

Dean heard a thump and a simultaneous ding as the bedroom phone was slammed onto its holder.

He jumped as the bedroom door opened, and a pissed-off looking Castiel emerged, his face almost touching Dean’s. He wasn’t pissed off at Dean, but everything else.

“Dean, I need to leave the apartment tonight. Either that or hide. Daphne’s bringing a care package.”

Dean snorted. “Dude, why not just - I don’t know - _see_ her? You’re meant to be engaged to her, and you’re...” Dean flapped a hand at Castiel as he pushed past, hands in fists and his shoulders held tense. “You’re not even cheating on her, you’re pretending she doesn’t exist.”

“I don’t want to deal with it!” Castiel said, seating himself heavily on the couch. “I don’t want to deal with things rationally and like an adult any more, I’m sick of it. Ever since my mom died―” Castiel looked up and caught Dean’s gaze as he approached - Castiel’s face was riling with emotion, his jaw twitching in held-back fury.

“Ever since she left me, I’ve been my father’s son. I began investing money at age eight, and I’ve done _nothing_ with my life but sit and watch my assets turn into a fortune. I’ve been a spoiled little rich boy for all my life, and I - fucking - _hate_ it.”

Dean stood there, sensing the couch might be a dangerous place to sit right now, since the popcorn had been upended over the carpet. Castiel sat leaning over his thighs with his head in his hands, breathing heavily. His shoulders rose and fell, knuckles white as he pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Dean,” Castiel said, forcing a calmness into his voice, “I never got a chance to be a child. I never got to play. The only time I got away from my life, I―” He huffed, balling a fist against his forehead. “I fucked around and I got myself a lifetime of disease. That’s what came of freedom for me. Call it karma, a sign, whatever. Making my own choices ended badly for me.”

Dean folded his arms, then unfolded them. He wasn’t defensive, he was just mirroring Castiel’s bottled rage.

Castiel looked up, chewing his teeth on nothing, jaw working a muscle. “I act like a child, Dean. I read something on psychology, apparently that’s what happens when you’re forced past developmental stages. I can’t concentrate on movies―” He gestured at the muted TV, where the menu screen for _Mulan_ played on repeat. “I can barely take in information when I read. I... paid someone to fake my degrees. I failed them, Dean. I’ve failed everything in my life. All I ever tried to do was please my father, and all I’ve ever done is fail.”

Dean crossed his arms again. “Is this another secret you never told me?”

Castiel sighed, thumbing his forehead as he closed his eyes. “Yeah. I have plenty more. I can’t tell them all at once. I’m a compulsive liar and I... I forget things, and I - get muddled.” He looked away quickly. “I pretend to myself it’s not true. But it is. Everything confuses me. I barely understand... _anything_.”

“You understand stuff,” Dean said, deeming the moment Castiel slumped his shoulders as a safe time to approach. He lowered himself and sat on Castiel’s left, shifting a hand to his thigh. “You’re not stupid, Cas. All the days we talked, all the time I ever spend with you, I never once thought you weren’t smart.”

Castiel pressed down on his lower lip, a tell that Dean knew meant he was trying not to cry. Dean rubbed his hand on Castiel’s thigh, sighing.

“Look, Cas,” Dean started. “What you’re doing to Daphne - yeah, sure, it’s childish, but you’re not a child. You’ve always been a responsible guy, okay? You look after things that matter. You mess around with me, but in the end - from where I can still see this going - you’re still engaged to her. That’s not a kid’s game, that’s real life. It matters. So deal with it.”

Castiel blinked profusely as his hand took Dean’s, holding it from above, squeezing. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not me you need to apologise to. I’m not hurt right now. I’m with you, so I’m fine. What you need to fix, it’s with Daphne.”

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand harder, turning his head away in a sudden flash of new frustration. “I can’t do it, not now. Not... not right now.”

Dean could see he was still torn up about his father’s worsening condition, but that didn’t mean he was going to enable him. “Some things can’t be put off.”

“I’ll see her at work tomorrow.”

Dean sighed. That had to be good enough, right?

“Fine,” Dean said, patting Castiel’s thigh. “Promise you’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

Castiel paused, then nodded, shakily, unsurely. Dean squeezed his fingers closed, making Castiel’s hand curl around his own.

“Good.” Dean sighed and moved to put a quick kiss on Castiel’s fuzzy jaw. “Now, go put some clean clothes on, I’m taking you to dinner at my place. You told Daphne you’re out tonight, let’s not make that a lie.”

“Everything I’ve told her is a lie,” Castiel said, eyes closed.

“Mm-hm,” Dean said, standing up and gently cuffing Castiel around the side of the head. “I’m here to make you stop doing that kind of shit.”

Castiel looked up at him, hopeful.

Dean winked. “Your guardian angel says get your ass off the couch. I’ve got a dinner to go cook.”

✿

Dean grinned hugely as Sam opened the door, his long hair a mess. Sam’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his brother, and Dean grinned even more. “Heya, Sammy,” he said, striding past Sam and patting him on the chest. “Look who I brought home with me.”

Sam was even more surprised as Castiel came inside too, his hands in his trenchcoat pockets and a quiet, slightly guilty expression on his face. “Uh, hey,” Sam said to him. Castiel attempted a smile in greeting, and Sam offered a tight smile of his own in return.

Sam startled as he saw Dean’s jacket flung over the couch, then, almost immediately, the tap in the kitchen was running. Sam hurried to stand at the edge of the kitchen, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing here?” Dean asked, pulling a frying pan out of the cupboard, then a spatula out of the pot beside the stove. “I’m making dinner. Let’s see... Gabriel’s home tonight, so’s Sarah. Thank god it’s Sunday, that means it’s a full house. Awesome, I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Hey, could you call Charlie? Tell her to bring some beer, Cas forgot to remind me, so it’s still back at his place.”

He tossed a jar of sauce from one hand to the other, expertly, not letting it slip at all. “Oh,” he shot a glance back to Sam, who stood and stared. “Nice to see you, Sammy.” He smiled, full and genuine.

Sam smiled back, indeed glad to see his brother taking control of the kitchen he once ruled. He’d barely been home in a week, stopping by to use the bathroom and change clothes, but other than that, he’d sleep here and then he’d be gone. Sam had missed him, and if the lingering look Dean was giving him was anything to go by, Dean missed him too.

Castiel said “Um.”

Sam swivelled around, taking in the stern posture and awkward way Castiel held onto his trenchcoat, draped over his crossed arms. His work shirt was decorated by his usual blue tie, and Sam recognised Dean’s knotting style at his collar.

“Make yourself at home, Cas,” Sam invited, flicking his fingers towards the open living room. “Do you know how to stack a wood burner? I can show you if you want.”

Castiel’s mouth slowly slid open, then shut. “Okay.”

Sam smiled, then yawned as he walked past. He plucked at his t-shirt, guessing Castiel probably didn’t care that he’d just rolled out of bed. Late night study sessions were nasty; he hated having no option but to take night classes, even when he had morning classes the next day.

By some strange miracle, Sam and Castiel bonded over charcoal. Castiel apparently didn’t care one iota that his white shirt obtained irremovable black smudges, or that he had to duck into the bathroom to wash ash out of his eyes. “Don’t blow on the white ash,” Sam had told him, a single second too late.

Castiel was weird company. He smiled strangely, he stared too intensely, and he seemed to be _thinking_. Constantly. And that frown between his eyebrows didn’t go away. Sam _kind of_ got what Dean saw in him. He was attractive, and he smelled like laundry, and his voice was a bit like Gabriel’s drum-‘n-bass music, if Sam was ever to compare a voice to music.

Besides the outer part of him, Castiel had a pleasant enough personality too. Sam barely knew the guy - he’d talked to him a few times, but it was always in passing.

Now, he said things like, “It’s okay, Sam, you can show me, then I’ll try it myself. I don’t want to break anything.” and “Um. Sorry. I didn’t realise it would do that. I’ll buy a replacement tomorrow on my way home.” and “No, really. I insist. This is your home, I’m a guest, and I should... I should clean up my messes.”

It seemed very much to Sam like he was on some sort of self-improvement diet. Like Dean had given him a pep-talk. Sam knew the signs, he’d been on a few of those diets himself.

Dean was pretty good at pep-talks.

And Castiel got Sam’s joke about Dean’s usage of the word ‘awesome’. Hearing Cas laugh was... whatever, it was kind of _awe_ some. The skin at the corner of his eyes would crinkle and his mouth pulled up at the sides, not hugely, but enough to show he was pleased. And his eyes twinkled.

He looked in Dean’s direction every time he laughed, and Dean looked back to meet his gaze, even across the room. There was silent connection going on there. Dean beamed in delight every time he heard that rumble.

By the time steam was pouring out of the kitchen and the fire in the burner was roaring behind its glass, the sun was on the verge of setting. Music warbled out of Gabriel’s bedroom - not his usual, but something Dean had broken into his room to play on the stereo. It had violins, and it reminded Sam of a posh concert.

Their home became more homey than normal - Charlie’s laughter joined the casual chats, and everything got twice as friendly. Castiel mostly stayed quiet, Dean stayed in the kitchen, but Sam kept an eye on them both: the two of them couldn’t go two minutes without stealing a glance. They had something magical between them, and Sam fretted it would get torn apart if they kept going.

But tonight wasn’t a night for fretting. Sam was already forgoing all the evening’s studies to spend time with what passed for his family, so if he could do that, then worry had no place.

Benny couldn’t make it, which nobody was surprised about. Sam wasn’t even bothered, but he could see Dean was.

In retrospect, seeing Dean’s face fall upon hearing the news - it said a lot.

That sadness implied Benny meant a lot to him. It was like the time Sam had to tell Dean that old Bobby Singer couldn’t make it for Christmas, that one time back in Kansas. When Dean missed someone, it meant they were special. Family, like everyone else.

The moment passed, and Dean’s attention got swept back up in the cooking, in the laughter Sarah provided as she ruffled his hair, pulling him away from the stove to fix whatever he’d done wrong.

But Sam lingered on thoughts of Benny for a while.

In the end, the single conclusion he came to was that Dean wanted Benny around because he genuinely liked him, not because he was trying to get favours out of him. Benny’s nice gesture with letting Sarah out of the cells earlier that week had, at the time, seemed like nothing but one of those _favours_. But Dean hadn’t mentioned it to Sam, not one word. Sam’s guess was that he didn’t even know.

So Dean was _friends_ with Benny. Sam felt a little slow. After all, it had been almost four months since they met, and Sam only caught on now.

He put the thoughts behind him, and accepted the champagne glass full of orange juice that Castiel offered him.

“Having fun?” Sam asked, sipping at his juice.

Castiel shrugged, watching Charlie and Sarah shriek and laugh as Dean batted them away from a pot that began to boil over. “I’ve never been at a gathering like this.”

“How d’you mean?”

“With... people of this type. People my own age, who aren’t lawyers or business people or who only want to talk to me because they think being my acquaintance would be helpful to their career.”

“What about your friends?” Sam asked, leaning his butt against the back of the couch, right next to Castiel.

Castiel stared into his orange juice. “You are my friends.”

Sam blinked. “So... all your workmates. You don’t mingle with them like this?”

“I’ve never enjoyed anyone’s company before. There’s Benny, and there’s...” He gestured at the chaos in the kitchen, then glanced to Sam. “There’s you.”

Sam’s eyebrows bounced. “Huh.” Such a statement was perplexingly flattering, in a way.

When Gabriel arrived, he turned heads. He often liked to sing that hip-hoppy-poppy song about the party not starting until he walked in, but tonight, the opposite was the case. The door burst open, and he came inside, walking backwards, Kali attached to his lips. The door slammed shut again, and silence descended upon the room as the sounds of kissing made their way to everyone’s ears.

Stilettos and lipstick, hands - lots of hands.

Sarah cleared her throat.

Kali popped off Gabriel, looking around as if she’d arrived into a new universe and was seeing human beings for the first time. She got her bearings in less than three seconds, and she straightened her red cocktail dress, thumbed at her smudged lipstick, and said, “Oh.”

Gabriel looked like an ass, but that wasn’t new.

Over the next five minutes, the usual palaver reigned in the apartment.

A folded-up dining table was dragged sideways out of Sam and Sarah’s room, a tablecloth retrieved from the washing basket and shaken outside, Sarah insisting it was only classed as ‘dirty’ because it had a mysterious stain on one corner, and it absolutely-definitely did not smell like cats.

Kali locked herself in the bathroom. Gabriel tossed Dean’s music CD out his bedroom and sent it whirring like a tiny silver wheel all the way across the apartment, and Sam went to fetch it. Castiel went to help Charlie microwave anything that had gotten cold already.

Dean busied himself doing... something. Sam saw a lot of moving around, a lot of darting between the two sides of the kitchen, between the cupboard and the stacks of pots he’d been preparing over the past hour or so. He was humming, and occasionally he’d whistle, laughing as a feline yowl rocketed around the apartment in response, originating from his closed bedroom door.

The dining table, with the help of Sam’s body strength and a few books under a corner, finally stood on its feet. The couch was turned around 180 degrees to sit parallel with it, alongside some other chairs fetched from Dean’s bedroom, Gabriel’s bedroom, and lastly joined by the wheely chair from Sam’s room. (His one condition upon removing it was that only _he_ was allowed to sit on it. He didn’t trust anyone not to break it - namely, Dean and Gabriel. But, now he thought about it, Cas would probably break it too.)

Dean and Castiel brought all the pots to the table, their shoulders brushing every time they passed by each other. They shared a little eye-magic too, which did not escape anyone’s notice but Gabriel’s, since he was too busy trying to grab at a pot to see what was inside.

“All right, we’ve got a chickpea platter, minus the platter part - just help yourself,” Dean said, removing one pot lid and letting steam escape in a fast billow, “a tender, juicy lamb something-or-other,” another plume of steam, “and chicken soup.” A third burst of white faded out his face from Sam’s view.

When the steam cleared, Castiel took his seat beside Dean’s. His face was far lower, since he was perched on the armrest of the couch, and Dean had a proper wooden chair that had previously supported most of the contents of his wardrobe.

“Potatoes are in the pile,” Dean pointed at a heap of chopped and flavoured nuggetty-looking things, “and take some salad if you’re inclined towards eating rabbit food. Take some anyway, even if you’re not. I’m not having you all get indigestion. Bread and butter’s next to Kali - oh, hey Kali - and there’s more drinks in the fridge if orange juice won’t get you drunk enough for this shit.”

He smiled, smugly taking in the impressed faces of everyone that surrounded him. “Well, what’re you waitin’ for? Coman todo lo que quieran, hijos de puta.”

He sat down and started serving himself with one hand, grinning at the napkin swan that Castiel set beside his plate.

“Wha’ woff that you shed?” Gabriel asked, mouth full as he directed his question across the table at Dean. “Comma toody wha’?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Spanish for ‘bon appétit’.”

Sam smirked. He knew enough Spanish to recognise that Dean had stuck a cuss or two in there. Typical. (But funny, he had to admit.) Gabriel might never know, and the joke was lost on him, for once.

The conversation began, but it wasn’t really conversation so much as mumbles and chewing and “Oh my god, pass the lamb back here, it’s amazing.”

Dean was showered with compliments - hey, he was _damn_ good at this - and he spent half his time glowing with pride, which mostly included half-smirks and “Ahh, c’mon, it’s nothin’. Shut up and eat your dead animals.”

Laughter and warmth like this, it said family like nothing else.

Castiel never stopped smiling. He fit in here, he laughed with everyone else. Sam could see the joy he was trying to hide - his eyes darted between people, hungry to see their smiles. Every compliment Dean received, Castiel would stroke his thigh under the table. (Sam knew it was happening, because he knew Dean’s soppy ‘ _I love you_ ’ face by now, and it was the only face he wore when Castiel looked at him. That, and Castiel’s arm movement wasn’t exactly subtle.)

Kali and Gabriel flicked food at each other, and noticing that, Sam got why Gabriel liked her so much.

Sam kept quiet, mostly. He and Sarah grinned at each other over the table, sitting opposite. Sam leaned closer a few times to let Sarah exchange food, to give her more or less chickpeas, to pinch some of her salad, because by pure divine intervention the salad bowl was already empty, and Sam was moping about it.

He watched Castiel stand up to pick up one of the cooking pots, bringing it closer to serve out another helping. But it didn’t go to his own plate, it went to Dean’s. The muttering kept on going in the background, but Sam took a moment to zone it all out.

That was _weird_. Nobody served Dean but _Dean_.

And Dean wasn’t saying a thing against it. He smiled up at Castiel, thanked him, eyes still on him as Castiel sat back down.

Sam didn’t even think Dean had _asked_ for more food, he’d just been... served.

There was something going on. And yeah, it was strange to Sam, but as he glanced over at Sarah, he saw that she’d seen it too, and she wore the same mask of concern that Sam did. “ _Weird,_ ” Sam mouthed at her, and Sarah nodded.

“ _Is he_ babying _him?_ ” she mouthed back, tucking her dark hair behind her ear.

Sam glanced over at Dean, raising his eyebrows as he saw Castiel thumbing a dot of food off Dean’s lower lip, taking it to his own mouth to suck it away. Dean’s gaze hadn’t broken from Castiel’s, still wearing the ‘ _I love you_ ’ face.

It was like watching slow-motion fireworks - Sam could see the outside shininess, the new explosion they had between them, but he could also see what it was underneath: gunpowder, a flaming burst of danger, created for destruction.

He looked back at Sarah, catching her eye. “ _We need to talk to him,_ ” he mimed, and she nodded back.

They’d leave it for later. Now was no time for a serious chat, not when Gabriel was flicking pine nuts across the table.

No more than thirty seconds on, Sam and Sarah put together the fact that they weren’t the only two to pick up the Dean-and-Cas vibes. A sultry, sharp voice cut through all the chatter and mumbles, as well as Charlie’s self-involved escapade with the flavoured potatoes.

“So,” the voice said.

Everyone turned to look at Kali, who was staring at Castiel.

Her lipsticked smile curled upwards at the sides, and she leaned forwards, painted fingernails like bloody talons as she cupped her own hands together. Sam had thought she was pretty, and a nice match for Gabriel’s playfulness, but now he looked at Kali and saw that she was formidable.

“Tell me,” she said, a targeted slide of her tongue touching one side of her open mouth. “Emanuel Montmorency. At a table with... hm.” She gestured at the company they sat amongst; hand turning, regal and somehow disdainful. “How did this come to be, I wonder?”

Castiel pulled in a breath, the ease of earlier lost upon hearing his given name. “I could ask you the same thing. Kali. _Kali_. I knew I knew your name from somewhere. Didn’t you... work for my father?”

Kali raised her eyebrows, lowering her hands to swipe them against her napkin. She covered her sudden anger well, but it still showed to Sam. “I’m known by many people in many places. A businesswoman,” she said, quick eyes flicking to meet Castiel’s across the long table.

“And a waitress,” Castiel said.

Kali smiled, breathing out. “Ah.” She raised her chin, eyes down once again. “My day job.”

Castiel made a huffy sound, curiously defensive.

Kali’s gaze shot daggers across to Castiel, and the tension between them amplified. “I do have one other question, young master Montmorency.”

Castiel’s jaw set, his head dipping low. There was something about being called that that hurt him; his nostrils flared, he became small, meek.

Kali laughed lightly, a sound that, had Sam had his eyes closed, could have been interpreted as cruel. As he watched, however, Kali’s smile was elegant, perhaps radiant. Gabriel was immersed in the way she was acting, his eyes poring over her upright posture, her dainty hands folded in front of her.

“My question,” Kali began, “is this: the woman you entered my restaurant with, some time ago - one Daphne Allen, I believe - where is she now? Hm? Does she know that you practice infidelity with another lover, someone... the same gender as yourself?”

Castiel’s eyes stayed on the table. Everyone was watching, eyes batting from one end of the table to the other, watching the pass between the two speakers like a tennis match. Now their focus lingered on Castiel, as he took some time to answer.

When he did, he didn’t lift his eyes. “I believe,” he said, low voice as equally as dangerous as Kali’s had been, “that is none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is.” Kali’s blood-red smile pulled in a curve. “What would your father say, young master? And, my gods, what would poor Daphne say?”

Castiel locked eyes with Kali, and spoke in total calmness. “They already know. You have no business in my affairs, mistress.” He snorted breathily. “Is that what you make Gabriel call you? _Mistress_?”

Gabriel squeaked.

Sam turned his eyes on Gabriel, who had paled white. If he’d had a tail, it would have been between his legs. As it was, his eyebrows seemed to have retreated to the sides of his face, trying to escape this revelation.

“What Gabriel calls me is none of _your_ business,” Kali said, curtly. Then she smiled, white teeth showing like fangs. “I rather think, after this sad little scene this evening, he will no longer be in want of my services. He couldn’t possibly have the money, in any case. I’ve bled him dry.

“Although, _Cas-tiel_ , if there was something you might like in his stead, I’m still prepared to provide for tonight. Perhaps I might offer a special deal,” she flicked her eyes to Dean, “given your... situation.”

Castiel looked nothing short of horrified, which reflected Sam’s own feelings in the matter. “I - I - think not,” Castiel managed, the side of his top lip quivering, showing his ire. “My father never spoke too highly of your performance. I sincerely doubt you would be of any better value to me.”

Kali could have disintegrated the napkin she held by her tight grip alone. “Perhaps you could let your father know I never thought highly of his performance, either.” Her eyebrows raised in sharp arches, and she smirked. “Suffice to say, my guess is that those kinds of issues are... hereditary.”

Dean barked a laugh. “Oh, they’re really not.”

Kali looked surprised, her attention zoning in on Dean. Dean shrank back, startled by the fire in her eyes.

“You,” she said. She tilted her head, like a cat about to pounce on its next meal. “Tell me what happened to the woman Emanuel was so intent on wooing. What became of her? Did he toss her aside, having found someone else, another toy?”

Dean grinned. “If you think I’m nothing more than Cas’ boy-toy, then you are really missing the point, lady.”

“And you are missing the question.”

Dean licked his lips. “He proposed to her, actually,” he said, defiant. “Cas doesn’t toss people aside. People have value to him, unlike other―”

“Ah,” Kali interrupted, her question finally answered. She smiled once more, which stopped Dean’s further attempt at talking. “He proposed _marriage_ , did he indeed... Congratulations, Emanuel. Together forever. Young master Montmorency, doing what your father wanted, taking advantage of the last chance you’ll have. Hm. Maybe this time you might succeed.”

Dean stared at her, swallowing.

Kali leaned forward, shoulder blades tall at her back. “Oh, didn’t you know? Old father Montmorency has not very long to live. How long, hm, how long...? Two years? One year... Six months, five months, four―” She gasped, her sharp smile shooting high on her cheeks. “Ah-ha-haa, four months. There, you ought to watch your reactions, you give away far too much.”

Sarah slammed a fork down onto the table, making everyone jump. “That’s _enough_.” She shot maddened eyes on Kali, her jaw twitching outwards, a sure sign someone was about to die. “Get out of my apartment. I don’t care what you want, _I_ want you out. You are _done_ here.”

Kali stood up, towering over the table, immediately becoming in control of it. Her presence was almighty, and Sam felt terrified by her, too close. Her red dress was startlingly like blood - how much pain had she caused other people, the same way as she had just now?

Kali.

Kali, the destroyer.

“There will be another end to this,” Kali promised, her black hair swaying as she stepped out from the table, striding slowly past the other seated people. The _poc... poc...poc..._ of her stilettos on the floorboards was menacing, keeping everyone down, nobody daring to challenge her again.

At Castiel’s side, she crouched down to put her face against his cheek. “Believe me, I will have my way.”

Castiel didn’t find a word to rebut her.

She turned, and in a slow, seductive blood-red sway, she made her path to the door. The room was silent but for the sound of her heels, the click of the door, then the creak of its hinges as she opened it.

“Oh, one more thing.” She looked back, and everyone held their breath, waiting for a threat. “Dean, your dinner was absolutely scrumptious. Don’t be surprised if a salut à Wesson appears on my menus at some point in the near future. No direct plagiarism, of course. I’m not partial to lawsuits. But I will experiment with some similar tastes. Mm-hm,” she laughed, “I do like to play with my food.”

Dean didn’t look back at her, still staring at the tablecloth.

“And Gabriel. Dear, Gabriel.” Kali’s smooth voice cut like a knife. “I look forward to seeing you at work tomorrow.”

Gabriel stood up, gasping, “I quit!”

But the door was closed, and Kali was gone.

“Hooooo-lyy _crap_ ,” Charlie said, a hand to her head. “Oh my god. I need to tweet about this. Back in five.” She left the table, scrambling for her pocket.

Sarah stared at Sam, and Sam stared back. Shock rung in the air like a gong had been sounded, vibrations under the floor as if Kali’s stilettos were still hitting the wood.

Sam glanced to Castiel, hearing his fast breath; Sam saw his shakes, his shell-shocked expression. Dean barely lifted a hand to get closer, but Castiel moved too quickly - he strode for the glass door, and walked out onto the concrete roof balcony, both his hands set on the top of his head.

Dean clenched his hand on the edge of the table, staring after him. Then he followed, practically catapulting himself to the door, closing it behind them.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” Gabriel whispered, both his hands over his face. “You guys are going to mock me forever. Actually, you know what,” he sniffed, pulling his trembling hands away from his cheeks, “I’ll just move out. It’s simpler, it’s easier. You’ll never have to look at me again, no judgement.”

“Gabriel, don’t worry about it,” Sam assured him, reaching a hand to pet Gabriel’s sleeve. “We don’t care what you were doing with her, she’s gone now. We all make mistakes.”

“I couldn’t even afford her,” Gabriel whispered, his eyebrows folded outward, sorry for himself. “She was the prettiest and the scariest and I sold my mom’s old engagement ring to pay for one night with her, and it snowballed. I - oh jeez―” He puffed out a breath, glancing away as the confession spilled from him. “I love her, you know? But not the - the real way. I got everything I ever wanted, who would care if my life fell apart so I could have it?”

Sarah took Gabriel’s hand and held it. “We’d care.”

Gabriel shook his head, lowering his eyes, but he seemed thankful anyway.

Sam looked out of the far window, at the two figures standing in the dark. Dean had enveloped Castiel in a tight embrace, and their bodies were swaying together. Dean’s chin sat tucked over Castiel’s shoulder, one of Castiel’s hands on the back of his neck, the other in the small of his back. A lover’s comfort.

Sam cupped his chin in a hand, watching the dust of entropy settle, as the vibrations underfoot ever-so-gradually calmed.

This was part of being a family, too. Having it fall apart.

✿

Not long after, Charlie went home. She wasn’t meant to have a late night on Sundays, since she had to pick Dean up early in the morning from the flower market. So, Sam and Sarah were left to clear and fold up the table, then turn the couch back around so it faced towards the TV again.

By the time Sam and Sarah began the dishwashing, Gabriel had taken it upon himself to pack up his things in preparation for when Sarah kicked him out, but it was obvious to everyone but him that he was going nowhere. If anything, the rest of them would cover his rent while he got himself back together, and that certainly wasn’t a deal he would see anywhere else.

Sam gave him a day. If he ever did set foot outside the front door, he’d be back in under twenty-four hours. As of right now, the sounds of thumping and heavy things being dragged came from behind his bedroom door. Everyone left him be.

Dean and Castiel were all wrapped up in each other, sitting together on the couch. Sam had considered asking them to help clear the table, but Dean had done the cooking, so it was only fair that someone else did the tidying up. And Castiel didn’t exactly look in any shape to do anything. He’d needed such a long time to even come inside - Sam had heard muttered refusals from him as Dean had tried to bring him in from the chilly roof; Castiel wasn’t keen to let other people see that he’d been crying.

To Sam, it didn’t seem like a big deal.

From what he’d put together, Kali had offered some sort of sexual service to Castiel’s old man. Possibly the same services she gave Gabriel, which was admittedly kind of icky. Sam tried not to think about the kinds of cross-contamination might have been happening there.

But being as unprofessional as Kali was tonight, what with her discussing business at the dinner table and all, she’d upset Castiel pretty badly. Four months wasn’t a long time to say goodbye to someone who had known him his whole life. It was a sore spot for Cas, and Kali had poked it.

Sam scrubbed an empty pan, suds up to his elbows, thinking about Castiel - Emanuel - and how far he had gone to hide who he was from Dean.

In the end, it wasn’t that massive of a problem. So what, he was rich, and he wore second-hand fame like a tattoo he regretted getting. He was an odd specimen, but if Sam were honest about his feelings, he couldn’t actually see anything inherently bad about ‘young master Montmorency’.

He didn’t _dis_ trust the guy, but he didn’t _trust_ him, either. Mostly because he’d lied. But if Sam held everyone to the same standard, he couldn’t trust anyone, not even himself.

He was protective of Dean. That was all. He didn’t want to see him hurt, which is what happened every other time Dean had shared a bed with a dick. To Sam, Dean’s hurt seemed inevitable.

Sam sniffed in surprise as Sarah nudged his side. He met her eye, shooting her a questioning glance when he saw her ‘ _stop that, Sam, it’s rude_ ’ expression.

Sarah flicked her eyes towards the couch. “If you’re going to watch them, at least do it subtly,” she whispered, a small smile resting on her lips. She picked up another dish and began to dry it.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You’re staring,” Sarah corrected, glancing towards the couch again. “Oh, _that’s_ where the couscous went.”

Sam looked over at Dean and Castiel, and in Castiel’s hand he saw a bowl of the sweet couscous that the group was meant to have shared after dinner. Sam shrugged. “He probably needed something to get his blood sugar back up.”

Sarah hummed in agreement. “Poor thing.”

“What, you’re feeling sorry for him now?”

Sarah scoffed, answering under her breath so her voice wouldn’t carry. “Obviously. He’s like a lost puppy.” She smiled, her hazel eyes grazing over Sam’s face and shoulders. “He reminds me of someone. No wonder Dean likes him.”

Sam snorted. “He’s nothing like me. Unless you’re saying Dean fell in love with his brother, which is... frankly, too Freudian for _anything_ I’m prepared to deal with.” He beamed at Sarah, shining brighter when she noogied him with her elbow.

“I’m saying,” she said, grinning as she swiped a dripping plate from his hand, “that I figure he’s worth trusting. If Dean’s gone this long and he’s still into him, there’s something special.”

Sam sighed noisily, staring down into the swirling, splashing water in the sink. “Yeah, I know,” he said, on the verge of giving in and accepting it. Dean was happy now, so what right did Sam have to ruin it, just because it _might_ turn sour later?

It was the fact that Castiel was _cheating on his fiancée_ that had him keep his guard up. The point at which it would turn sour might not be gentle at all. It would be a milk-left-out-for-a-month level of sour.

“Whoa.”

Sam looked at Sarah. “What?”

He followed her stunned line of sight, his eyeline resting squarely upon where Dean and Castiel sat.

Castiel was holding the bowl of sweet couscous, and Dean was sitting close to him, as he had been doing all evening. He faced Castiel with one hand on the back of the couch, his mouth open a little.

Sam glanced back to Sarah, not sure what she’d seen. She kept staring, so Sam turned his eyes back on his brother.

Right then, he saw what they were doing. Castiel pinched at the couscous in the bowl, which he held not far from Dean’s chin. He raised his small handful, carefully, and he placed it in Dean’s mouth.

Dean held his eye. He sucked the couscous from Castiel’s fingers, let Castiel pull his fingers out, one by one.

Then Dean chewed.

Then he swallowed.

Then he opened his mouth for more.

Sam blew out a soft breath between tight lips. Eyes wide, mind racing with undefined thoughts, he turned his gaze on Sarah, locking his eyes to hers as she stared back.

“What the hell,” Sam whispered, letting the last plates sink into the running water. Sarah turned the tap off, handing Sam a dishcloth.

“We need to talk to him,” Sarah said, firmly. “You remember what I told you, about when Daphne was with Emanuel?” Sam nodded. “This is so much _like_ that. Babying and smothering and... I don’t know what this is, it’s... He’s...”

Sam watched her mouth open and close, eyes barely focused. He felt about the same, at a total loss for thoughts or words.

What he saw was Dean being unnecessarily coddled. To the extent that he was being _hand-fed by another grown man_. Castiel serving him food at dinner, that slotted together with this: wrongness and weirdness and something that needed to be discussed.

Something was going _on_ between Dean and his boyfriend, but it wasn’t normal. This wasn’t understandable behaviour for Dean. It couldn’t be healthy.

Sarah swallowed, straightening out the damp dishcloth on its hanger. “When Emanuel leaves. We’ll talk to him then.”

Sam thought about that for a moment. “Why not talk to them both together?”

Sarah flicked fingers towards the pair, who were still eating. Castiel was feeding himself, then feeding Dean, and Dean was hanging on every movement, starving for Castiel’s attention.

“Castiel is fragile,” Sarah said, cautiously. “I don’t know, it’s so hard to profile him.”

Sam ran a hand across his mouth, smelling dishwashing liquid on his humid skin. Whatever Castiel was doing to Dean - brainwashing, making him overly dependant - it wasn’t good. Sam and Sarah were going to fix it.

✿

Kittens usually relaxed them all. Handling them made the world go away, and everything became tiny mewls and fluffy fur for a while.

This time, Sam’s kitten-time was fraught with concern. Dean and Castiel were with him, and that was largely the problem.

Castiel had been cuddling the kitten that Dean had named Honeybee, and he didn’t seem inclined to let go. Honeybee was fine with it, practically asleep in his hand. The tiny creatures were only two-and-a-half weeks old, and all they did was fall over, and make their bedding smell funny. They were completely adorable.

Castiel hushed his kitten, over and over and over, his second hand making a roof over its body as he held it. Dean sat on the floor behind him, his chin over Castiel’s shoulder, and he watched those hands, and he watched the kitten fall asleep.

What concerned Sam was the little things about how Dean was acting. For one thing, he’d taken twice the recommended daily dose of antihistamine tablets before entering this room, but aside from that, he was too _cuddly_. He rested his cheek on Castiel’s shoulder, he played with his rolled-up shirt cuffs, fingertips trailing on his inner arm. Sam had never seen Dean so comfortable.

Had Sam not seen Dean downing tablets in the kitchen, he wouldn’t have even considered that it might be drugs. But right now, he was considering drugs. Bigtime.

“Sam, sit down, you’re scaring Lucifer,” Dean whispered, meeting Sam’s eye. Sam knew he was looming - he was almost as tall as the room, and his arms were folded, and he was glaring. But Lucifer did indeed seem irked. Her tail flipped about on the bed, trailing white fur.

Sam sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor. His eyes lingered more on Dean than the four kittens who stood beside Lucifer, experimentally lifting themselves onto shaky, vibrating legs before losing their balance and collapsing onto the blanket below them.

Dean watched Honeybee. But he also watched Castiel’s face, and his eyelashes rose and fell as his eyes _roamed_ Castiel. That ‘ _I love you_ ’ face was starting to get on Sam’s nerves. Seeing that face was almost as bad as walking in on Dean having sex. It was gross and it made him feel sick and dirty.

Castiel just seemed to be meditating. Barefoot, he sat cross-legged like Sam, his arms cradled in his lap. He held his kitten like he would hold a human baby.

“I think,” Castiel said, tilting his head and resting his bearded cheek against Dean’s hair, “I would one day like a cat. They’re very...” He pulled in a deep, deep, deep breath, held it, then let it out. “Calming.”

Dean fucking _nuzzled_ him. “Yeah, but I’m allergic. I couldn’t... you know. Visit you.”

“There would be a special room,” Castiel said. “Where it’s for you and me. And Honeybee wouldn’t be allowed in.”

Dean snorted, but still he smiled. “Why does the _cat_ get free rein of the house? Why isn’t there just one room for the cat, and I get to have you in all the other rooms?”

Castiel hummed a laugh, lifting his head from Dean’s to turn his nose upon him, putting a kiss to Dean’s forehead. Dean seemed to flush with quiet delight, eyelids fluttering, a pinkish hue rising in his cheeks.

“Perhaps, we would have a big enough house that you could both have your own space,” Castiel suggested, murmuring his words against Dean’s skin, tiredly. His eyes were closed, falling asleep like the kitten he held. “You’d cross over in some places, but there would be a bedroom... and a bathroom... and a lounge and a garden and a painting studio. And,” Castiel tipped his head down some more, obscuring Dean’s face from Sam’s view, all but his pink lips, which he licked and parted as Castiel finished, so quietly Sam only heard the shapes of his breath, “there would be a kitchen. You and I would cook together, and make food for each other to eat.”

Dean let out a breathy, _private_ sound. And he kissed Castiel, on the _lips_. In front of _Sam_.

Sam sat there in cold astonishment, watching their mouths move together, Dean’s eyes closed, Castiel’s eyes closed, their heads turning, lips smacking tiny, squishy noises. Their breathing was practiced - Sam didn’t want to imagine how many times they’d kissed like this to learn the pattern.

When they finally pulled away, Dean’s face was flushed, and Sam stared. His eyes were shining, his smile was too easy; Sam had never seen him smile like that. It wasn’t even ‘ _I love you_ ’, it was so far beyond that that Sam wondered if _he_ was missing something with Sarah. He didn’t know it was even possible for Dean to _make_ that face.

Drugs, it had to be.

But heroin didn’t do that. Neither did crack. Sam didn’t know what Dean was on, but Castiel had to be dosing him somehow.

Okay, whoa.

Sam got ahold of himself.

There was protective-younger-brother, and there was plain old paranoia. He allowed himself to be suspicious, but he couldn’t let himself accuse anyone of drugging Dean, not without hard evidence.

And he didn’t think he would ever find evidence of anything of the sort. Dean was just... happy.

Which was weird, sure. Unheard of. At least on this scale.

But Sam didn’t want to break that smile. So he kept his mouth shut.

When the kittens were all curled up together by their mother, Sam was the last to leave Dean’s room. He turned the light off and shut the door behind him.

Dean hadn’t complained about the kitten’s litter box being in his room, and Sam thought that probably had something to do with the fact that under the tough exterior Dean often tried so hard to keep up, he actually really liked cats. (Kittens even more so. But everyone liked kittens.)

Applying the same reasoning (Dean’s tough exterior + kittens = Dean’s melted heart) to the situation with Castiel, Sam took a guess to say that Dean’s tough exterior + Castiel = cuddles and soppy smiles.

Maybe the shmoopiness wasn’t drugs. Maybe it was love.

It was uncomfortable for Sam to think about. He’d known nothing but the hardy, caring, protective side of Dean for... well, his entire life. To see his older brother being cared for like this by someone else, it was new. It was invasive to Sam, but once he got used to it, he figured it might actually be a nice thing to see.

He couldn’t help overhear Dean’s conversation with Castiel as they neared the door, because he was standing very close, adjusting a plant pot that did not need adjusting, and he was listening very hard.

“At least stay for tea or coffee or hot chocolate, or something,” Dean muttered, hands on Castiel’s trenchcoat collar, straightening it. “I could make cake.”

“You’ve cooked enough for one day,” Castiel smiled, almost chuckling.

“But it’s fun,” Dean said. “C’mon, we could make gingerbread. It’s only midnight. I don’t have to be up for another three-and-a-half hours.”

Castiel laughed. “Going by the way Sarah is looking at me, I think I’ve probably overstayed my welcome.”

Sam looked up at the same time as Dean, both checking Sarah’s expression. She was simply waiting, staring. Sam knew she wanted a word with Dean.

Dean called to her, “Quit staring at Cas, Sarah. He thinks you’re chasing him away.”

“Some people have beds to get into,” Sarah said, smacking a clean spatula back into its pot beside the ladle.

“Some people have couches, not beds,” Dean snarked back. “Besides,” he returned his gaze to Castiel’s, that miraculous smile on his face again, brightening his eyes, “you’re always welcome here. Okay?”

Castiel held his eye, frowning like he didn’t understand.

Dean pressed their lips together, hands cupped around Castiel’s dark-haired jaw. When Dean separated their mouths, he sighed. “I’d come back home with you. But...”

Castiel nodded, unspoken explanations passing between them. “I’ll visit you at the shop tomorrow?”

Dean smiled, nodding. “Feels like it’s been ages.”

Castiel kissed him again, quickly this time, before pulling away. “I had a good evening, Dean.” He swayed their joined hands - Sam hadn’t even noticed them putting them together. “Your family is wonderful.”

Dean nodded, glancing to Sam. Sam inhaled sharply, almost breaking a leaf off the plant he was fiddling with. Dean just smiled warmly, looking back to Cas.

“They’re the best,” Dean agreed, lifting Castiel’s hand to his lips to kiss his fingers. “Now go on, get lost.” He opened the door for Castiel, letting in a chilly woodsy-smelling draft from the stairwell.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“‘Night, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes lingered, and Sam heard his footsteps as he eventually descended the stairs. Dean hung onto the open door, his head resting on the edge of it, watching Castiel leave.

When the front door closed to the street, Dean closed the upper door. He was still smiling.

“Dean, we need to talk,” Sarah said immediately, striding out of the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of her blue top.

Dean moved away from the door, curious. “About what?” He perched on the back of the couch, and his eyes moved to Sam as Sam approached, standing beside Sarah. Dean was grinning lopsidedly. “Hey, do you guys like Cas? He’s awesome, huh.” He bit his lower lip, grinning harder.

Sam let out a breath, taking Sarah’s hand. “Actually, that’s what we want to talk to you about.”

Dean nodded upwards. “Tell me yourrrrrr... ooh, top favourite things about him.” He locked his hands on his lap, and started kicking his feet with his heels bumping the red suede on the couch. He was still goddamn _smiling_.

Sam struggled to find words, not needing to look at Sarah to know she was doing the same.

“Well,” Sam started, intending to humour Dean. “He’s good at learning how to build fires.”

“He eats a balanced diet,” Sarah said, flatly.

“And?” Dean demanded, opening his hands to his sides, inviting more. “Come on, tell me you like him! You like him, right?”

Sam wobbled his head, eyes drifting to the sloped ceiling. “I... do? I guess?”

“ _And_?”

Sam sighed, putting a hand against his forehead, rubbing it. Sarah squeezed his hand, then let go of him to begin the real discussion.

“Look, Dean,” she said, starting as she meant to go on: firmly. “He’s handsome and he’s rich, but I think we all saw today, there’s... issues.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, you know what? We got issues too. I’m a god-freaking ex-junkie whose brother is a six-foot-something bulk of ex-criminal mastermind, whose wife is an ex-cop turned general troublemaker. I think it’s fair to say every family has some shit nobody wants dug up.” He shrugged, perfectly at ease.

Sarah set her lips together, Sam watched her out of the corner of his eye. “His cheating on Daphne is not something to be ‘dug up’,” she said, quoting the words in the air with her fingers. “It’s fresh and recent, and it’s _ongoing_. You’re part of it.”

Dean swiped his lips with his tongue, and his legs stopped swinging. “I know. Me and him, we’re dealing with it.” He tried to meet Sarah’s eye, only managing it for a split second before he looked back at the floor.

“So Daphne does know,” Sarah said, repeating what Castiel had told Kali.

Dean took a breath. “Yeah. We think so.”

Sarah looked at Sam for reassurance, asking for help to move forward. Sam sighed, stepping closer to Dean. “Dean,” he began, “We need to ask about... something me and Sarah saw you doing.”

Dean glanced up, poking his glasses closer to his face. “Who, me and Cas? What did we do?” He looked between Sam and Sarah, nervous.

Sam ran his hand back through his hair. “Uh. Okay, so... You were sitting there.” He pointed at the couch. “And Cas was there. And he was... putting food in your mouth. With his hands.”

Dean looked scandalised - and not sarcastically, either. “Wait, you saw that?”

He was blushing. Like, actually, legitimately red on the cheeks. It startled Sam, but he plowed onward, needing answers.

“Yes, we both saw you.” Sam patted Sarah’s hand. “We need to ask why you’re letting him do that. You seem―”

“Dependant,” Sarah finished, stepping up to Sam’s side, putting a hand on his arm. “When I saw Daphne with Emanuel on our double date, she behaved with him like...” Sarah gestured a hand, “like a mom would around her kid. He wasn’t very _with_ -it, he was pretty involved with _you_ , but he let her baby him. Now, when I see you and Castiel... I don’t know, Dean, it looks like he’s doing the same thing with you.”

Dean opened his mouth. “What? _Parenting_ me?”

“Coddling,” Sarah said. “It’s not like you to let it happen.” She glanced to Sam, and Sam nodded, backing her up.

“You don’t let me arrange the bottles of shampoo in the bathroom, or do the laundry,” Sam said. “You make sure you do everything yourself, you always have. And you just let Cas put your food on your plate. Did you even _ask_ for more food?”

“And,” Sarah added, “He gave you a stuffed toy. You’re a grown man. _He’s_ a grown man. Doesn’t that seem... _creepy_ to you?”

Dean was gaping, his face set somewhere between scared, embarrassed, and disgusted - like he’d somehow swallowed a live goldfish, and it wanted to get out. “Wh-why are you even asking me this?” Dean muttered, a question that seemed like stalling to Sam.

“Because we’re _concerned_ ,” Sarah said, perching beside Dean and putting a hand on his knee. She tucked her hair behind her ear, studying Dean’s face. “We need to know you’re okay with everything he’s doing. To us, me and Sam... this looks like you’ve gone into a tailspin. Mid-life crisis maybe?” She laughed, but then stopped, exhaling. “You don’t act like this usually.”

“That’s because I don’t have Cas around, usually,” Dean snapped, snorting as he glared at the floor. “Why the hell do you care. That stuff’s private, okay? You weren’t meant to see it.”

Sam wrung his hands into fists, then let them relax. “Don’t get angry, Dean―”

“I’m _not_ angry―!”

“Dean!”

Dean quietened, lowering his eyes again at Sam’s scold.

“Now,” Sam began again, “We don’t understand, so just...” he swept a hand slowly, “explain.”

Dean licked his lips, turning his head away as he gripped the back of the couch, feet firmly on the floor. “I said we had issues, me ‘n Cas. We’re working through them.” He licked his lips again, then sighed.

“And I know what you did on Tuesday night,” he said, resigned. “I’m not mad.”

Sam met Sarah’s eyes. Dean knew they read Emanuel’s medical files.

“I get it,” Dean went on. “You’re trying to protect me. God knows what from, ‘cause Cas sure ain’t it. Guess you know he’s - positive.”

“For HIV,” Sam added.

Dean nodded. “Uh-huh. He told me. There’s some... problems, around it― You don’t need to know what, okay, it’s need-to-know basis. But me and him, we’re working it through. We wanna make it work between us. Well, I do, I want that. Daphne’s one big blockage in it right now, but what with Cas’ dad being more sick than we thought, I’m kinda hoping the engagement will fall through.” He shrugged.

“But there’s trust issues,” Dean said, finally looking up and meeting Sam’s gaze. “The kind I have with everyone. People I love don’t always tell me things that they’re supposed to tell me.” He flattened his lips, and Sam shot him a quick apologetic smile.

Dean looked away again. “So we’re fixing it. He... he feeds me, or whatever.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a trust exercise.”

Sam smirked. “Really, Dean? That’s seriously what you’re going with? _Trust exercise_?”

Dean’s nostrils flared, and he met Sam’s eye. “It is,” he said. “I lost a lot of weight last week, I don’t know if you noticed.”

Sam lowered his eyes, then met Sarah’s, exchanging a look. The memory of seeing Dean drowning in his sorrows was painful for them both.

“He helped me with that. Fed me, and stuff. It was kinda... fun, I liked it.” Dean shrugged, shaking his embarrassment off. “I stopped feeling like I needed cigarettes, and he wouldn’t let me have booze, he’d give me juice instead, and he cuddl―” Dean coughed, “showed me a nice time. Helped me get better.”

Given that being with Castiel seemed to have provided a drowning Dean with dry land, Sam was further inclined to think Castiel was maybe not such a bad egg after all.

“Huh,” Sam said.

“He likes looking after me,” Dean went on, his voice quiet now. Sarah was holding his hand, and his fingers were curled around hers. “I look after _you_ guys when I’m home, or... at least, I try.” He swallowed, eyes shifting like he was reading words off the floorboards.

“And something I said to him, early on when I met him - I told him to look after Daphne, ‘cause she’d be tired after all the caring she does for her daughter.” Dean took in and let out a breath through parted lips, a shivering smile barely hinting a curve. “And he did it for me. He kinda... swept me off my feet and carried me. Figuratively. Not literally.”

He smiled some more, and Sam could pretty much see the brief fantasy behind his eyelids - Dean was thinking about being picked up by Castiel, carried by him; maybe bridal style. Sam shifted on his feet, clearing his throat.

“Anyway,” Dean said.

He blinked a few times, then turned his face towards Sarah. “It’s the same thing the rest of us do when we’re looking after _you_. Massage your shoulders, run your bath. Not that he does that stuff for me, yet - heh― Um, but it’s the same theory, right? Looking after someone who spends their whole time looking after other people.”

He swallowed, then let go of Sarah’s hand, starting to swing his feet again. “Feel like I’ve been running my whole life. Well, I have. And he - dunno - anchored me.”

Sam met Sarah’s eyes, and they shared a smile. Those were the same words Sam had said to Sarah, the night they spent together after they got married. _I’ll be running forever. You’re my anchor. Stay with me while I run. Keep my feet on the ground._

Sarah turned back to Dean, petted his side, then stood up and walked to Sam, taking his hand. “So long as you’re happy and safe.”

Dean beamed, meeting her eye, then Sam’s. That smile was spectacular, build on layers and layers of honesty. “I am,” he said. “I really am. Seriously. It’s awesome.”

Sam nodded, low. Then he stepped forward, held out a hand for Dean to shake. “I’m sorry Sarah and I went behind yours and Benny’s back to do something illegal. Next time, we’ll involve you.”

Dean smirked, looking at the proffered hand. “That’s what I like to hear.” He grasped Sam’s hand, and bolted forwards to wrap Sam in a giant, crushing hug. Dean laughed into his shoulder, and once the initial shock wore off, Sam hugged back.

“Something else you don’t know about me,” Dean muttered, squeezing Sam harder, “is that I really, really―” he squeezed so hard that something popped in Sam’s back, “― _really_ love hugs.”

Sam squirmed his way out of Dean’s embrace, feeling weirdly satisfied. (His back felt better, too.)

Dean laughed, and brought Sarah in for a hug as well. Sam pursed his lips, watching Sarah get lifted off the floor with a shriek.

Sam got it, now. The hugs, the cuddling, the nuzzling, the smiles.

Dean wasn’t acting strangely. He was acting like _himself_.

For the first time, Dean was comfortable enough to be open and honest with Sam. And that was the exact definition of what Sam wanted in a home. Maybe, after so many years, they had found their permanent roost.


	22. Someday

Castiel arrived at the shop late, and could do nothing more than stand around and wait for Dean to finish up with the young couple booking flowers for their wedding service.

Dean was grinning like crazy when Castiel finally approached the desk, now alone but for the two of them. Castiel thought the mad enthusiasm was quite a becoming look on Dean.

Dean grabbed Castiel’s face from over the desk and planted a loud, messy kiss on his mouth. “Mmmmm,” Dean sighed, holding their lips together before pulling away, lips smacking like he’d eaten something delicious. “Fuck, I missed your stubble. Look at that.”

He stroked the side of Castiel’s face with the backs of his fingers, and the touch made a rasping sound. Castiel blinked at him, dumbfounded, but he felt an underlying amusement at Dean’s bounciness.

Dean laughed, patting a rhythm on each side of Castiel’s shaved jaw before letting go and sauntering around the desk to his side. “What’re you staring at, huh? Miss me?” He grabbed Castiel’s face again and stuck his tongue into his mouth, moaning again as he smothered Castiel’s lips with smooches.

Castiel just stood there until he could breathe again.

Dean pulled away, looking Castiel’s face over, green eyes flashing dark and light as the overcast day made the golden highlights in his irises untraceable. “God, you make me so _freaking_ happy.” He shook his head, seemingly at awe with that.

Castiel smiled, lost in the way Dean looked at him. “I hope that never changes.”

Dean breathed in as he kissed him, then nuzzled his lips away. “Same.”

Castiel smirked, straightening his tie as Dean let go of him. “Apologies for not getting here earlier.”

“You missed all the good flowers!” Dean complained, moving away to rummage in a pot nearer the back of the shop. “There were some real nice cornucopia things I made up this morning, bought the bases to fill from the market, expensive as hell. Yet both of them―” He swept up to Castiel’s side, a rose stem in his mouth and a pot of orange blooms in his hands. “―dishap’rd with’n a coupl’r hrrrs.” He plucked the red rose out from between his teeth, skimmed it and spun it between his fingers, then presented it to Castiel.

Tentatively, Castiel took the rose, wondering if it was really for him, or if Dean was going to take it back.

Dean glanced at the way Castiel held the rose, then at Castiel. “What, you don’t like it?”

Castiel shut his open mouth, then re-opened it to speak. “I wasn’t sure if it was―”

“What, not for you?” Dean sniggered. “Jeez, you gotta have caught on by now, Cas. Everything’s for you.”

He said that, and then he looked down at the desk, thumb dancing on the edge of the pot of orange flowers. He wasn’t doing much but avoiding Castiel’s gaze. Demure, like he hadn’t meant to say such a thing out loud.

“How.... How much of everything?” Castiel asked, rubbing the full red rose petals against his lip.

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “How much of everything could you take?”

“How much are you offering?”

Dean chuckled, grinning at the desk. “If I said I’d be okay with having a cat in the house if the house was yours and mine, what would you say to that?”

Castiel swelled with unexpected fortune and gratification. Smiling, he put a kiss on Dean’s cheek. “I’d say yes.”

Dean set his lower lip between his teeth, still grinning. “God, I feel like a Barbie doll. Dress me up, play with me, brush my hair, put me in a house.” He shook his head, turning his face away. “If you hadn’t said all that stuff yesterday, I wouldn’t even be thinking about this. But I kinda want that. A garden and a balcony, maybe a pony or something.”

Castiel hummed an appreciative note, manhandling Dean’s arms to pull him closer and embrace him. “I can get you a pony.”

“I was kidding.”

Castiel pecked Dean’s lips. “I want to spoil you.”

“I don’t want spoiling. I actually don’t need anything more than, y’know, what you’re already giving me. Except maybe not the lying, cheating, two-timing part.” Dean licked his lips, kissing Castiel once more before stepping away. “Sam ‘n Sarah told me something last night, made me realise how much I _don’t_ want spoiling. Like, sure, nice things are nice, but don’t make it too good.”

“Too _good_?” Castiel looked at his rose. “Why not?”

“‘cause,” Dean said, lifting the bucket of orange flowers off the desk, leaving behind a circle of water, “if everything doesn’t end well for me, I don’t want you stuck with a goddamn pony.”

Castiel’s gaze tagged after Dean, smiling as he watched him breeze around the shop, moving things and tidying things. “Things will end well for you,” Castiel told him.

Dean didn’t believe him, but the smile didn’t slip away.

Their conversation meandered between topics, but notable was the part where Dean informed Castiel he no longer needed to buy a replacement for the part of the wood burner he broke last night, since Dean already fixed it. He looked so cheerful when he said that; Castiel admired how much pleasure he took in simply being useful, even in the most basic of ways.

They chatted about the couple who had just ordered Dean’s catering services for their wedding. They were after a small service, the kind Dean said he liked best, since it left him with a manageable workload. He was booked months in advance, too, and he was over the moon about the fact.

Castiel kept it to himself that he’d placed an advertisement for Cupid’s Bow in the local bridal magazine. Some secrets didn’t really need telling, not if telling would result in him feeling like he’d done it just to make Dean love him. Which he didn’t. He did it to make Dean _happy_.

This smile, the bounce under his feet - that was the result of good business. And kisses.

Dean’s hands moved swifter and more skillfully than ever; even though the sun was clouded over today, he was as chipper as if its rays were bouncing around inside him.

He taught Castiel how to mix flower colours effectively - something Dean had learned by trial and error. Orange and purple; white and green; blue and pink and purple. Everything Dean made was beautiful, and by contrast, everything Castiel made caused Dean to laugh. It wasn’t a mocking laugh, but one that said things impossible to put into words. He was beside Castiel, in every sense. His partner.

They messed about, touching hands and playing with flowers until the sun went down. The last customer left with an armful of delights - made by two pairs of hands this time, not one. Golden glitter sparkled on scarlet petals, gold ribbon spooling in exquisite curls from the bouquet’s edges. Romance in hand, the man went off to woo a woman.

Then, under the light of firefly-flames, in jars hung from above, the two men sat together on the floor, kissed, and spoke of things that didn’t matter. The delicate wings of bees, the sound of water rushing over seashells. A repeated promise to one day visit the city’s beloved Conservatory of Flowers. On the day Dean was Castiel’s, truly, that would be the day they would go there together.

Curled against Castiel’s chest, between his legs as Castiel leaned against the desk, Dean asked, “How long until I’m yours?”

Castiel, with his arms around Dean and his chin perched on his head, whispered, “I don’t know.”

✿

Dean stared out of the glass window that night as he lay on the couch in the dark, peering out at the other rooftops that surrounded his apartment. He watched steam billowing from someone’s kitchen window, hearing music playing in the distance.

He only then remembered that Castiel was meant to have talked to Daphne today, stopped avoiding her, confronted her, asked her or told her about what Castiel and Dean had with each other.

He hadn’t. And for all the hours they’d spent together in the shop, they’d never once spoken her name.

✿

Tuesday was long, and Tuesday was without contact between them. Dean sadly meandered back into his apartment that evening, and made dinner without putting much effort into it.

It was crazy how different his days were when Castiel was not in them.

When he was there, Dean saw things in colour, blazed with fireplace heat and frosted with sharp winters, beautiful and dramatic, a landscape of snow over his day. Everything would sparkle, and summer flowers would bloom through the blanket of white; always, there was hope.

On days Castiel was not there, didn’t visit, and Dean didn’t visit him, Dean’s day was washed bare of energy. Smells were not as potent, everything was dry and his food didn’t taste so good. He missed him.

The feeling was not limited to Castiel. The same was true of Sam. But with Castiel, there was _desire_ , more force in it. Dean actively _wanted_ to see him, as opposed to knowing for certain that Sam would be back soon, so he knew when to have dinner ready.

Sam was a constant, an Olympic torch that never went out.

Castiel was a spark in the darkness, flaring bright for a moment and then gone again.

Dean craved that light.

✿

The phone rang.

“Gabe, could you get that?” came a lone shout across the apartment. Sam’s voice.

Dean shushed the kitten who mewled under his hand. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just the telephone. It rings when people are too busy to come down and say stuff to your face. Or telemarketers, who are people who get paid to be Terminators. Won’t leave you alone.”

He kissed the kitten’s fluffy head. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

The phone rang for a fifth time, and Gabriel shouted, “I don’t live here, someone else has to get it.”

Dean rolled his eyes, put his kitten down and crawled over to the door and opened it. “If someone doesn’t get that before the time it stops ringing, I’m calling the person back and telling them all your horrible habits. Like leaving toenail clippings embedded in the carpet, Gabriel.”

Gabriel threw something against his wall, which thumped on Dean’s side.

The phone rang for the eighth time.

“Asshole,” Dean grumbled, standing up and carefully closing his bedroom door behind him so no kittens would escape. The phone rang twice more before he could even get near the wireless extension handset, and when he did, he knocked it into the kitchen and it fell in the empty sink.

Dean’s jaw tightened. He fished the phone out, leaning over the island and bruising a hipbone to grab a dishcloth to dry off the damp edges of the plastic.

It had stopped ringing, which was nice enough on his ears, but it made him hate his housemates.

“I told you guys I was on kitten duty, you’re meant to take over this shit,” Dean complained, wandering back to his room and shutting the door, trying to work out how to see who called. This phone had too many functions.

As he was scrolling a list of what was probably contacts rather than a list of past incoming calls, the phone rang again. He answered immediately, setting the handset to his ear. “‘lo?”

Castiel chuckled at the other end. “ _Is that how you usually answer the phone?_ ”

Dean grinned, clearing a space on the carpet to kneel down, one hand outstretched so he could pet Honeybee. “Usually I give a whole ‘hello’. Today it might as well have been ‘Wesson, Blake, sometimes Bradbury, and maybe Gabriel too but he’s being a dumbass right now. How can I help you?’ but I didn’t really feeling saying much until I realised it was you. Now I’m just babbling. This is the most I’ve said all day, I swear to god.”

Castiel hummed an amused note, warm and friendly. “ _Ohhh, Dean. I’ve missed you._ ”

Dean rolled his eyes, settling down. “It’s been a day. It’s only seven right now, I saw you this time yesterday.”

“ _That’s a long time when your day has been filled with nothing but reasons to wish you were somewhere else._ ”

“Did you go into work today?”

Castiel sighed. “ _Yes._ ”

“Did you talk to Daphne?”

Silence.

“Caaas,” Dean groaned, thumping his face into his mattress, before recoiling with a sudden sneeze and smudged glasses. Removing his glasses and scrubbing them against his t-shirt, Dean sighed. “You’re not very good at this.”

“ _I never implied that I was. Every time I saw her coming I..._ ” he snorted, “ _hurried off in the other direction and hid in the restroom until I was sure she was gone._ ”

“She is going to be _so_ mad at you, Cas! You can’t fucking tell someone you’ll marry them and then run away from them.”

“ _But I did, and I do, so it is entirely possible._ ”

“Don’t get snarky with me, you little fucker. I don’t―”

“ _Ohh, I love when you swear._ ”

Dean paused. “Really?”

“ _Yes. It makes me tingly._ ”

Dean grinned, pressing the phone closer to his ear so the kittens couldn’t hear. He sank his chin into the mattress, feeling his eyes water as he tipped them upwards, a high of _CasCasCas_ starting to bubble inside him. “Tingly, huh.”

“ _Yes. All over. One time when we make love, you should swear a lot more than usual._ ”

“I swear when we have sex?”

“ _You do._ ”

“Huh. Didn’t really know that.”

Castiel seemed to purr in his ear.

Dean slowly began to smile. “Cas, did you call to have phone sex?”

Castiel panted softly. “ _I wouldn’t complain if we did. But no, I didn’t call for that, I called to talk. About nothing in particular. I just wanted to hear you._ ”

“Good,” Dean said. “‘cause I’m with the babies right now, and I don’t think Lucifer would take kindly to me jerking off in front of her brood.”

So they didn’t. And they talked instead.

Time didn’t pass like a hand around a clock, sped up, nor passing by alongside the stars as they rotated across the sky. Of course, the sun eventually did lower past the horizon, and the sky turned from purple to dark blue, but that is not to say that Dean noticed.

What he noticed were the moments Castiel laughed, or the way he would smile every time he spoke. On the day they first met, Castiel had known less about smiling than he did about wooing women, and now, he was an expert on the first and had failed the second more spectacularly than should be possible for a man such as Castiel, a man with a smile like his, a laugh like his.

He was beautiful even when Dean couldn’t see him. Dean visualised every blink of Castiel’s eyes, every movement of his hand as he would scratch his nose. Dean knew every mannerism Castiel possessed, he could see his body shaped in the sound of his voice. He was beautiful, and Dean did not need to see him to know.

They talked about home; Dean told Castiel about the places he grew up, Bobby’s old house, rooms behind walls, doors that didn’t make sense. A perfect place to grow into a young man, Dean mused; wide open space, dust, wheels and oil and bullets. Places for his hands to work, to fix and to create. Machinery.

Dean talked about motels. About dripping faucets and stains on the beds. About disassembling and reassembling guns on the mattress, about sleepless nights. Gaudy wallpaper, peeling paint.

Castiel talked about dreams of colour, sick of seeing nothing but beige, champagne, eggshell white, magnolia. He wanted magenta, emerald green, peridot and topaz - he wanted wallpaper that clashed with the carpet, he wanted a house to be coloured with the palette of Dean’s flowers. Bold where it mattered, quiet where it needed to be.

They talked about beehives, about honey. Only once did they venture into playful teasing; honey on skin, a tongue to follow the trickle. _Envolveré tu cuerpo con mi boca. El sabor a miel en tu piel es mi preferido._

_J'aime quand tu me parles en langues._

To make love with their words didn’t have to be about their bodies. They didn’t have to tell each other what to do with their hands, didn’t have to touch at all. Dean could lie back against his own bed, his legs curled up so he didn’t disturb the sleeping cats. He could stare at the light in the ceiling, listen for the rumble of cars on the road outside, and he could hear Castiel making love to him. Whispering him a touch.

They spoke about gardens, lilies on a pond in the place Castiel grew up. Frogs that sang at night, dragonflies grazing over the surface in the summer. A family of ducks, forever in place, their home.

To talk about home was love for Dean.

Arousal didn’t have to be sexual, not when it could be like this. His heart could beat and his body could soar, he could be simmering in a perfect, blissful ecstasy, and all he needed was a promise for the future. To be loved made him climax, to be wanted made him beg for more.

Castiel provided, he always did.

Both their breath would catch as Castiel painted Dean a picture with his words: old grass shimmering under the sun, a horse grazing on pale yellow as the Earth rustled under a faint breeze. Brown leaves gusted across tired fields, summer turning to fall, still beautiful.

Memories, Castiel said. That estate held so many.

The house would be his in four months. And he would be free to share it with whomever he wanted.

Dean didn’t need the words said aloud to know Castiel’s meaning already: that house was meant for him. For _them_. He knew it by the thump of his heart under his hand, a heavy beat of _home, home, home_.

He would let himself be caught up in this. Sometimes he wondered how much of this would be a lie in the end; would it all end the way he wanted it to? He had doubts.

Castiel was a liar, he always had been.

But Dean trusted Cas. Dean too was a liar, and he didn’t want to mistrust his own feeling - it meant too much to him, he couldn’t let the hope escape. He wanted to see the end hold what Castiel promised him now.

Dean heard the bleep down the phone line as Castiel had another incoming call.

Castiel looked at his phone, then said to Dean, “ _It’s nothing._ ”

Dean closed his eyes. “It’s Daphne, isn’t it.”

Castiel sighed. “ _Don’t stop talking._ ”

“Cas―”

“ _Please. Talk to me about anything._ Anything _._ ” Emotion crowded his voice, made him sound strained. “ _Don’t make me deal with this._ ”

Dean heard a pleading man and he knew he ought to intervene. Hang up, maybe.

But he was as selfish as Castiel was, and he didn’t want this glowing, bright light inside him to be extinguished. He would talk forever if it meant Cas never went back to Daphne.

“...Cas―”

“ _Dean, I said something to her._ ”

“What?”

“ _I - I didn’t want to tell you. But I’m trying not to lie, and I already lied and now I need to tell you._ ”

Dean nodded, rubbing his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “Okay then, talk.”

“ _She and I met. She caught me in the break room, I made her some coffee and she asked me if I was free for lunch._ ”

“And?”

“ _And..._ ” Castiel swallowed loudly, “ _I was enlivened by her request. Straight away I told her, ‘I’ll call Dean’, then I reached for my phone and I started typing a message for you―_ ”

“What? Why?”

“ _I thought she meant she wanted another double date! I was so relieved, all I could think about was seeing you, being with you... kissing you, watching you in the bathroom, touching you under the table. She said ‘lunch’ and I thought of you. I thought maybe you would bring Sam or one of your other friends. And I could spend my meal with you._ ”

Dean was burning with pleasure, half-hard, panting; he loved hearing this, loved everything Castiel said. But he was still afraid for what Castiel would say next.

“ _Sh- She took my phone, and she told me she didn’t want you there. ‘No Dean. Just you and me.’_ ”

Dean gulped, letting out a breath as the pleasure fled his body like a puff of steam from a hot plate.

“ _And I... I told her..._ ”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean whispered.

“ _Told her I had plans for lunch. She said that was bullshit, and it wasn’t exciting when she swore like it is when you do. On her, when she swears you know she’s angry. It makes me... cower from her._ ”

“So what happened?”

Castiel made a breathy sound. “ _I went to lunch with her._ ”

“And?”

“ _And I felt like crying the whole time. I can’t even tell if she knows about you and me, she didn’t talk at all. She was just waiting for me to talk, and I didn’t, because I was scared I’d tell her. She already knows I love you, I told her that weeks ago._ ”

Dean smiled weakly, finding serenity in the fact Castiel had known how he felt for so long, too.

“ _But I don’t know if she knows I’m your..._ ” Castiel trailed off. “ _I don’t know the appropriate word._ ”

“Boyfriend,” Dean said, jokily. “Gentleman friend?”

Castel chuckled. “ _I do like that thought. You as a gentleman. Acting like all the men I grew up around, waistcoats and horrible cigars, white gloves poised just-so under their noses as they watch the horses race._ ”

Dean rolled onto his side, snorting in amusement. “The only kind of gloves I wear are thick leather ones for welding.”

“ _How about thin, lacy ones,_ ” Castiel said, purposefully pulling them away from the conversation about Daphne. Dean could hear his welled-up tears sinking away, fading as the topic passed. “ _I know you like lace._ ”

Dean licked his lips. “Mm.”

“ _You could act posh and rich, blow smoke in my face, and you could hit me with your cane._ ” He spoke with unhindered hatred, chilling. “ _Then I could handcuff you, rip your clothes off so they fall apart, fuck you with your legs open._ ” Dean heard him lick his lips. “ _I would like to destroy you like that, I really would._ ”

Dean squeezed his thighs together, covering himself with a hand. “I get that. Turning a shitty childhood into a sexual fantasy. It’s messed up.”

“ _It is,_ ” Castiel agreed. “ _But that doesn’t stop me wanting it._ ”

There was a long pause, wherein Dean did nothing but nurse the half-erect bulge in his crumpled jeans. Then Castiel said, quietly, “ _You understand it’s just a fantasy, though? Anything I hurt, it’s not to hurt you, it’s part of what I’m... playing out._ ”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I get that. Fantasy’s different. If you act it out for real, it’s still fantasy.”

Castiel’s breath crackled, nodding. Dean turned his head on his pillow, tired and sleepy.

Castiel slowly began to speak, tentative. “ _I like to think of you degraded. I wish I could stop, but I can’t. I love you so much, but I still want to see you embarrassed in some way. I want total control._ ”

Dean got it, he really did. “Cas, don’t worry about it, okay? That’s how I did sex before you. Times like that, I just wanted power for once, ‘cause it’s not like I got control over my own life. You still don’t have that, you still want it.” He grinned awkwardly. “Just be glad you have me, because right now I’m totally good with you taking anything you wanna have from me.”

“ _I want to promise you now that any of these things I say in private... it’s not how I see you in reality. You’re the strongest person I know, it will always feel... wrong, to have you under me._ ”

Dean pursed his lips, shutting his eyes as they filled with the black static of fatigue. “I like wrong, Cas. Honestly, man, I never thought I’d say it, but I like someone else doing the nasty stuff for once. Makes me feel less gross about me wanting the same stuff years back.”

Castiel huffed, smiling. “ _I love you, Dean._ ”

Dean grinned. “Stop saying it, you’ll wear it out.”

“ _I mean it every time. And every time it makes me happier, because every time I say it, it’s true._ ”

“God, you are worse than Romeo.”

“ _Romeo wasn’t in love with you. I am._ ”

Dean chuckled, burrowing his cheek into his hand, fending off a yawn. “Hmmm.” He sighed, slow. “Cas?”

“ _Yes, Dean._ ”

“What time is it? Feels like we’ve been talkin’ forever.”

Castiel rustled, and creaked, and something thumped - then his breath entered the phone line again. “ _It’s almost three o’clock in the morning._ ”

Dean opened his eyes, startled. “Holy crap. We’ve been talking for seven hours.”

Castiel sighed, and Dean heard the flompy noise of his mattress. “ _Perhaps it’s time to finish this call._ ”

Dean smiled, then yawned. “Yeah, maybe.”

“ _I can imagine you lying here next to me._ ”

“Mm.”

“ _Would you sleep with me tomorrow night?_ ”

Dean groaned. “I can’t on weekdays, Cas. It takes me too long to get back in the morning.”

“ _I know, I know. I was just curious._ ”

“How ‘bout Friday night? I could open the shop late on Saturday. We could lie in.”

Castiel purred. “ _I like the sound of that._ ”

Dean breathed slowly, warm, wishing he had a clap sensor for the light so he wouldn’t have to go and turn it off manually. Come morning, his eyes would be puffy as hell, his skin would be burning - serve him right for lying on the cat’s bed for seven hours.

It was a long, long time before he registered the quiet, gentle voice in his ear. “ _Goodnight, Dean._ ”

And then the call ended, and Dean smiled an exhausted smile, feeling exactly like he had made love all night.

✿

Castiel got caught up in a whirlwind of panic once he got to the office the following morning. It didn’t take long for Daphne to track him down - some animosity set aside, she was up-front for the time being: this was no time for personal quibbles.

“I called you last night,” she said, harried and loose-haired as she scrambled through her notes. She had dark bags under her eyes, and the whites of them were bloodshot. “At three o’clock. Three o’clock in the morning.”

Castiel walked with her, eyes on her files as she tried so sort them in her hands.

“You didn’t pick up,” Daphne went on, turning swiftly around a corner, Castiel almost had to skip to keep up. “The phone said you were engaged.”

“I was engaged,” Castiel said, eyes on the floor.

Daphne harrumphed. “As if that actually meant anything to you.”

Castiel felt the sting of her bitterness. _Engaged_. He wilted slightly, holding the door at the end of the corridor open for her so she could enter his office. “Apologies,” he said, entering behind her and closing the door so they were alone. “I was talking to Dean.”

“At three in the morning.”

“Yes.” Castiel sat down in his chair, not the one at the desk, but the one his father’s staff would fall into when they had something to complain about. He set his face under a hand, sighing slowly.

The early morning sky slung cold light across the desk, misty beyond the slats of the blinds. He could hear frantically ringing phones from all across the office, muffled by the walls.

Daphne slammed her files onto the desk, picking up the TV remote and turning on the flatscreen that was attached to the wall. Castiel peered out from behind his fingers, watching as Daphne skipped backwards through the recording to find the place he needed to watch from.

Chills descended off Daphne’s shoulders. She had every right to be angry, Castiel knew that. He imagined her current ire was less about the fact he loved Dean than the fact that he hadn’t been available when disaster struck.

“Here,” Daphne said, tossing the remote back onto the desk with a clatter. “Listen.”

Castiel watched as a news reporter in a suit brushed hair out of her face, blown about by the night wind. Lights from the cameras lit her face, and she shone in the artificial illumination.

“ _Reports are currently coming in from both named and anonymous sources alike. So far, we have several confirmed accounts on the subject of the allegedly_ terminal _health of the high-ranking official, James Montmorency, CEO of Divine Power Incorporated._

“ _The initial broadcast was posted on popular social media website ‘Facebook’ at exactly eleven p.m. on Sunday night, and was immediately passed on to local authorities, with their full intent to investigate the allegations._

“ _The information put forward by the company’s forefront minister Linda Tran earlier this morning implies that Mr. Montmorency’s illness was_ not _a secret to employees of the company, with witness reports being filed by the San Francisco police department at the current time._

“ _To those on the outside, this may not look like a cover-up, but when the future of one of the major U.S. city’s electrical power, gas and water supply is at stake, we have to ask ourselves: what_ is _Divine Power Incorporated trying to hide?_ ”

Daphne paused the TV, leaving the reporter with her mouth open and her eyes frozen halfway through a blink. Castiel stared at her, chewing on the tip of his tongue.

“There was a woman,” Daphne said, “some dominatrix in a red dress, on video, shouting from the rooftops, practically. She knew everything, Emanuel. His health, his tax fraud, the _company_ ’s tax fraud. Even the people in billing didn’t know about that!”

Castiel’s jaw muscles tightened, and he squinted at the wall.

Daphne snorted, sitting heavily into Castiel’s giant leather chair, swinging it to one side. “And then there was a fucking _taxi driver_. And you know what? That one wasn’t on us. That wasn’t some slip-up with the filing, or some jilted ex-girlfriend with a vendetta, that was _you_.”

Castiel looked across at her, wide-eyed. “Pardon?”

Daphne leaned over the desk, her chunky bracelet hitting the desk as she glared at Castiel. Her cheeks seemed to sharpen, her mouth set in a line. “You and Dean Wesson, in a taxi, on your way home from the theatre that night. You’d think you would know not to _talk_ about these things in public.”

“Talk about what, what did I say?!” Castiel implored, leaning closer over his thighs.

Daphne pulled a paper out of her folder, something she’d been keeping near the top. “I got this out of the media reports, they haven’t released this to the public, and if I can do my job properly, nobody else will see this.”

“What does it say?”

“The driver overheard what you said to Dean. That your father is blackmailing you, that you’re marrying me so your father will let me head the company and we’re not all left to rot. That without me at the head, Divine Power will fail.”

Castiel shook his head, unsure why she was so irked by it. If anything, it ought to have proved to her that Castiel had faith in Daphne to continue his father’s legacy.

“You also let slip that your father has a year to live,” Daphne finished, putting the paper down. “And now the media know. With this - Kali whoever - telling people something similar, this looks very much like Divine Power has been keeping it quiet that we’ve gone bankrupt.”

“And... have we?”

“Gone bankrupt? No. But as of two-thirty this morning, the flightiest shareholders began to sell their stock, getting wind of this... this...” Daphne frowned, “levity. And the worst part is, the part about tax fraud and _various_ other monetary crimes, that’s all true. Long-term investors won’t want to stick around if that gets out. Your father has been feeding crap into this company, cutting other companies out of the picture for years. He crushes, and he surrounds the little clean-and-green companies and he smothers them out of existence.”

Castiel snorted. “Well, that is very much what he does.”

“We are failing, Emanuel. This company is dying.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Castiel asked, a queer smile on his lips and a shadowy darkness creeping across his eyes. “We smother, as you say. Divine Power has the monopoly on San Francisco’s energy. We have this whole city under our thumb, and until now, nobody could take it from us. This place, this office? This was my father’s dream, and now he doesn’t care. He’s rotting away in the countryside, and that’s where he’ll stay for the next four months.”

“What’s after then?” Daphne asked. “What’s happening in four months?”

“Then he’ll die,” Castiel sneered. “He lived among fumes and burning oil, and that’s the way he loved it. So he’ll expire the same way he lived; in fire and smoke. Fast and all-consuming.”

“The cancer moved faster than we thought,” Daphne said quietly, sinking back into the chair, making it shudder on its mechanical spine. “I’m sorry, Emanuel.”

“So am I,” Castiel said, shutting his eyes and putting a hand over them. “I hate him for what he does, but I still don’t want him to go.”

Daphne was quiet for a while, then sighed. “We need to do something. A new strategy. The public needs to know they won’t be cut off, because when it comes down to it, this company is about the users. It’s not about the shareholders or the investors, it’s about the people who need to cook their dinner and set their alarms and wash their car at the weekend.”

Castiel peeked out from behind his hand, smiling at Daphne. “That is what my mother used to say. She would fight with him, tell him constantly that people don’t _want_ a lack of options. If there was a way to run this city by wind power, she wanted it.”

Daphne stood up, nodding. “I need to take over the company. Split parts of it up. Let other people into our space and _change_ what we’re doing. We’re ignored shareholders’ input for too long - we can’t cope with the resources we have, and without a head, this place is... oh, you know. It’s fucked over, Emanuel. We all are.”

“No, it’s not,” Emanuel said. “I’ve talked to my father. The other day, he was... on the verge. On the edge between letting you take over and letting me have Dean, and letting me do what I needed to do to keep his company afloat.” He ran a hand over his mouth, holding back tears. “I wasn’t his child, this company was. He loves it more than me, he always has.”

“You’re saying he’d let us keep it alive.”

Emanuel nodded. “Ignore what he says. Just do it, just take over and he won’t care, so long as part of this place is still standing at the end of the day.”

Daphne rubbed at her tired eyes, wheezing, a hand on her hip. Her suit was crumpled, pulled on too hastily. “I need to alert the media. The whole company. Everybody. The damn workers at the oil rig, God knows. Pray for me, Emanuel. I’m going to have a long, long week.”

✿

Castiel got home that night, and without bothering to turn the lights on, he collapsed face-first into the couch. It smelled like Dean, and like popcorn, and like it hadn’t been cleaned for far too long. Penelope used to do a better job than he realised.

Groaning, Castiel rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

Everything was going to be fine. Everything was going to be _fine_.

He held his hand above his face, eyes on the smooth edges of the silver engagement ring he wore. The ring meant nothing to him but a marriage to power, not a future with someone he loved. Daphne was dear to him, but beside Emanuel, they did not have a marriage, they had a business partnership. Marriage to her would be marriage to her new job, and it represented everything Emanuel had wanted to escape for his entire life.

This marriage to Daphne was not for _anything_ any more. Daphne now had the company, she didn’t need Castiel. Emanuel. Whatever his name was.

Marrying her would bring nothing but a lifetime of weariness for them both.

If only his father was not so determined to see them together. The old man still didn’t understand that Castiel would find prosperity in his personal passions and interests, not in his business investments. For him to raise a family, he did not have to be with a woman, nor even have a child. Having Dean, by himself or with his friends, accommodated everything Castiel needed to build his nest. Maybe his father understood part of that already, but without his confirmation, all hope meant nothing.

Closing his eyes, wishing Daphne a silent apology, Castiel took hold of the ring and wriggled it off his finger. It bunched on his knuckle, and it made him grit his teeth in pain, but he forced it free, and his knuckle throbbed in relief. The empty band on his finger now felt cold, clammy, like a band-aid had been left on too long.

Castiel peered at the ring, the circle shining in the light of the city as he stared through it.

Shaking his head, he let it go. It fell onto his chest, and he let his arm fold beside his body. He waited a few seconds, listening for a voice, any voice, telling him he was about to make a bad decision.

No voice came, and he received no sign. So he got up, ignoring wherever the ring fell, and he went to the phone.

He was going to do what _he_ wanted to do. It wasn’t any less rude of him - removing a ring did nothing to invalidate the engagement - but still, he had desires that couldn’t be satisfied by anything. Nothing, but one person.

“Dean, it’s me.”

“ _Oh, hey, Cas. It’s―_ ” a pause, “ _Wow, it’s late, did you only just get home?_ ”

“Yeah,” Castiel chuckled, rubbing his eyes under his fingers. His eyeballs buzzed, and his skin itched with fatigue. “Long day.”

“ _I saw. Kali really got you, huh._ ”

Castiel stared at the ceiling, still staring as he sat back on the couch. “She... was my father’s mistress. So many times, I wished I didn’t know exactly what went on at home while I was out, but she was never careful about what she left lying around.”

Dean stayed quiet.

“Apparently,” Castiel said, with fake cheer, “she knew about his lung cancer. And about his tax fraud. Releasing that information to the public got her some kind of financial reward from the media or corporate groups, I didn’t understand it, but she did well out of it. It looked a lot like uncalled-for exposure to me.”

“ _He’s not going to jail or anything, is he?_ ”

Castiel pressed his lips together, dauntless. “I doubt it. By the time everything is filed properly and traced back - going years, decades, I might add - then he won’t have long enough left for anyone to bother charging him. Where he is now, he’s harmless.”

Dean hummed a low note, breathing out. “ _Kind of a big mess, huh._ ”

“Quite.” Castiel smiled. “I - actually, I―”

“ _What?_ ”

“I don’t meant to impose. I maybe shouldn’t―”

“ _Spit it out, Cas._ ”

“Would you like to come over tonight? I could do with some company.”

“ _It’s Wednesday night, I have to get to the flower market tomorrow morning._ ”

“I’ll pay for your taxi,” Castiel said. “You could head straight over there at four.”

Dean was considering it, going by his silence. “ _Do you... actually have any intention to sleep, or...?_ ”

Castiel fingered at his grin, having missed how it felt on his face. “If you don’t want to sleep, I’m happy to not sleep.”

“ _I was still up here, anyway. Allergies still get me._ ”

Castiel wanted to hurry this along, but bit on his lip, not intending to pressure Dean.

“ _Ahh, all right,_ ” Dean breathed, his voice changing as he stood up from a seated position. “ _I’ll bring a change of clothes and stuff. Maybe something fun to play with, who knows._ ”

Castiel touched his crotch, feelings of heat and enthusiasm locking into his body. “I look forward to seeing you. I’ll order your cab now.”

“ _’kay. I’ll leave Sammy a note._ ”

“Oh, Dean, before you go. One thing.” Castiel rubbed at his forehead, blinking. “Just... be careful what you say in front of taxi drivers. Apparently they record things.”

“ _Isn’t that illegal?_ ”

Castiel shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t really care. Benny probably has a few things to say about everything that transpired today, but no, I don’t care.”

Dean huffed a grin. “ _Whatever, chuckles. See you in thirty._ ”

“Okay. I love you.”

“ _I love you, too._ ”


	23. Wet

The moment Dean was inside and the door was closed, Castiel pushed him up against the wall and moulded his lips against his mouth. Dean dropped the duffel bag he was holding, let Castiel hook his legs up around his hips, let him rock against his body.

It didn’t last more than a few seconds; Castiel moved away, and Dean stood on his own feet, reaching his hand out to take Castiel’s.

He offered a smile, so gentle in the dark. “Hey,” he whispered, not breaking the subdued stillness of the hallway with his greeting.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, watching Dean duck to pick his bag up again and adjust his glasses. “I was glad to see you.”

“Not complaining,” Dean said, bumping Castiel’s side as they made their way through to the lounge. “You brushed your teeth specially for that kiss, didn’t you.”

Castiel smiled, leading Dean into the kitchen, under the lights that warmed the whole room, the lounge too. “I did. I was...” he glanced away, still smiling as he squinted, “excited.” When he looked back to Dean, Dean’s smile was twice as charming. “I’m always excited when I know you’re coming.”

Dean stood in silence as Castiel filled up a large pitcher of tap water, then pinched two glasses from the cupboard, holding them from the rims. With a twitch of his head, he invited Dean into the lounge.

“Do you need anything?” Castiel asked him, over his shoulder. “I closed the curtains; privacy seems more important now... given everything that transpired with a certain taxi driver.”

Dean murmured something unintelligible, kicking his boots off and falling back into the couch, the sleeves of his leather jacket sprawling over the back. “I’m all good,” he said, eyes closed. “God, ‘m sleepy.”

Castiel put the jug of water down on the coffee table, watching Dean’s slow breathing as he lay flopped over the couch. He looked like he was sleeping, and Castiel started to fantasise; he could watch over Dean while he slept, he didn’t need to play out all the things he’d brought Dean here to play out.

Dean cracked an eye open. “You’re quiet.”

Castiel took a breath, blinking. “Well,” he shrugged, “maybe we could sleep. You look like you could use some.”

Dean gave a breathy grunt as he leaned forward, removing his jacket, then his plaid shirt. “Ahh, I’m fine. If you need some therapy sex, I can do that. Sleep hasn’t been on the menu all week, it’s not like I need it or anything.” He pulled up a smile, shaking his shoulders loosely as he stood up. “Four hours a night, and I’m functioning.”

Castiel tilted his head, more concerned than Dean seemed to be. “You did not fare well without sleep, those first days I met you.”

Dean poured a glass of water, right up to a half-inch below the rim. “I didn’t have you, then. Not keeping me warm at night, or something. Whatever it is all the songs say about people in love.”

Castiel chuckled, taking the glass Dean offered him. He sipped, swallowed, looked into his glass, then downed its whole contents in one.

“Whoa. Dehydrated, I guess,” Dean muttered, still standing with his own glass in hand.

“Not really,” Castiel said, thumbing away the trace of water left on his lips, then putting down his glass. “Drink yours.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but swallowed a few sips. “Ahh,” he said, smacking his lips. “Taxi air is nasty. Really dry.”

“Oh, thank you for reminding me,” Castiel said, leaving Dean where he was and going to get his wallet from his jacket pocket. He came back with forty dollars in notes, and he handed it to Dean.

Dean didn’t take it. “You’re... paying me?”

“Covering your cab fare,” Castiel corrected.

Dean stared at the money. “Seems like you’re paying me.”

“I’m not,” Castiel assured him. “I don’t want you travelling here at a loss.”

Dean pulled a face at Castiel, batting at the hand that held the money, knocking it away as he grinned. “I’m never at a loss when I see you. Christ, dude, it’s like you don’t even get it.”

“Wh... What don’t I get?” Castiel asked, setting the money on the coffee table, watching Dean finish his drink.

“That I actually like coming here,” Dean said, rolling his eyes as he poured more water. “And I don’t care if it costs me, ‘cause it’s basically costing you, too. And _you_ don’t seem to care about what this whole affair is doing to your life.”

Castiel sat down beside Dean and put his hands together between his own knees. “What makes you think I don’t care?”

“Your ring’s gone,” Dean said, pointing at Castiel’s ring finger with his glass-holding hand. “You spent all day with Daphne and now you need my company to unwind. You’re offering me water. Which, from you, basically means you want me to feel good.”

Castiel smiled. The last part wasn’t really relevant to the point Dean was making, but it was nevertheless true.

Dean kept on looking at Castiel’s hand, and Castiel poked at the pale band where the ring used to be, knowing that was what held Dean’s interest.

“I didn’t,” Castiel said, to clarify before Dean asked. “I didn’t talk to Daphne, not about us.”

Dean looked into his glass and tossed back another sip. He swallowed as he lowered the glass, and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Figured.” He didn’t show any obvious disappointment, but Castiel sensed it anyway. Still, he appreciated that Dean didn’t _pressure_.

Distracted, Castiel revelled in the way Dean’s hand twisted as he lifted the glass to his lips. Liquid passed into his open mouth, Castiel watched the level in the glass flow empty, dots of water left stuck to the insides.

Dean licked his lips, and Castiel took the glass from him. He felt firm inside; a pulsing, rising energy. He knew what he wanted, and _Dean_ knew what he wanted. Castiel poured him another drink, putting it into Dean’s hand.

Dean watched their hands connect around the glass, and his eyes lingered... before flicking to Castiel’s.

Castiel’s body roared, flames under his skin, animal desire, a lust that made him crave putting his hands on muscle, wanting to hear the soft cry of pleasure that Dean would be making later. He wanted, wanted, wanted. All from a look, from a touch.

But it didn’t come so fully, it was only a roar in his head.

The way it happened was gentle, subtle, easy. Dean licked his lips again, nodded, eyes on Castiel’s mouth. Agreement. Permission.

Castiel raised the glass to Dean’s lips, and Dean let go of it, giving Castiel full control.

Dean’s eyes stayed on Castiel’s, half-closed, eyelashes long and slim as he blinked. Castiel tipped the glass, letting the clear fluid spill over his tongue; Dean swallowed it down, every drop, still watching Castiel. Castiel stared at the glass, but he could feel Dean’s eyes on him.

Castiel turned away and poured another glassful. His heart was thumping, his hands were on the line between shaking and steady.

They’d done this before, on their date with Daphne and Sarah. They’d poured each other water, wine, they’d downed every glass the other dared to offer. The intention hadn’t been to make the other intoxicated, but to make him desperate. See how much he could take, working to the limit.

And that had been the first time, the first time they’d played this game.

They played it again, but this time, Castiel had the power, in control. This wasn’t a challenge, but an offering.

Dean moaned as Castiel made him take another gulp. He was slow and careful, and he made sure Dean wouldn’t choke, but even so, water spilled from the edges of his mouth, dampening his t-shirt.

Dean panted for breath as Castiel pulled the glass away, giving him time to recover.

Dean licked his lips, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed. He smiled at Castiel with a lazy, foolish smile. “You gonna make me hold it?” he asked.

Castiel sank forward and kissed him, his own lips feeling hot and dry against the water-chilled, water-rounded lips of Dean. He held the kiss, then inched away, smiling because kissing Dean made him happy.

“Yes,” he answered. He grazed Dean’s lips with the back of a finger, enjoying their smooth feel. “Until you can’t take it any more.”

Dean licked his lips quickly, searching Castiel’s face, reading something in his eyes. He paused for a while, then nodded, opening his mouth to let Castiel offer him another sip.

Once Dean finished that glass, Castiel curled closer to Dean, thighs pressed to one of Dean’s, his torso angled towards Dean’s body. He rubbed Dean’s stomach with one hand, not yet feeling a bloat under the skin. “How do you feel?”

Dean’s smile came up shaky, and he rested his head backwards against the couch. “It’s cold. Cold all the way down.”

“Can you have some more?”

Dean nodded. “Maybe another... two.”

Castiel kissed his cheek. Dean’s stubble was bristly, unshaven since the morning. “You’re so beautiful.”

Dean smirked, but he didn’t look like he really believed Castiel. Castiel kissed his cheek again, letting his lips stay for a while, mouthing _beautiful, beautiful, you are beautiful,_ against him. Maybe one day he’d absorb the kisses, and he’d believe the words.

“C’mon,” Dean said, nudging Castiel’s thigh, hand skimming on the fabric of Castiel’s black suit slacks. “Fill me up, big boy.” He winked, clicking his teeth on his cheek, and Castiel grinned.

Castiel knelt over Dean’s lap, knees either side of his thighs, arched over him to help him swallow another glassful. Dean watched Castiel’s face the whole time, his hands rubbing the backs of Castiel’s thighs, his ass, squeezing a signal when he needed to pause to breathe, letting the liquid settle.

“How do you feel now?”

Dean smiled on one side of his mouth. “Looking forward to later,” he said, green eyes shiny in the soft lighting.

Castiel lifted the frames of his spectacles up to kiss his eyelids, left, then right. They fluttered gently under his lips, he could feel Dean’s eyes moving below the thin lids. Soft eyelashes.

Castiel set the frames back down, hoping they were comfortable for Dean. “Are you full?”

Dean sucked then bit his lower lip, then shook his head. “Could take another one. And once it settles... yeah, I could take more.”

Castiel throbbed between his legs, loving how eager Dean was, how compliant. This was both of their addiction, it wasn’t one-sided, it wasn’t craziness and wrongness for one of them. They were as much in this together as they were for the rest of it.

Castiel got off Dean’s lap to pour another glass, and he beckoned Dean out of his seat to join him standing. Dean tugged at his t-shirt to straighten it, and Castiel halted for a few seconds, admiring the muscles of Dean’s shoulders under the tight cloth. That body, those muscles - they were so much more powerful than Castiel’s. Dean was a tiger for real, he was a wild animal, and Castiel had no right to tame him like this.

Dean licked his lips, opened his mouth.

Castiel held Dean’s hip as he poured water across Dean’s lips, letting him drink, swallow, swallow, swallow. Dean moaned for a second time, a sound of pleasure, not one of discomfort. His hands slid softly to Castiel’s waist, and he took Castiel as an anchor as he stood there, with Castiel filling him up.

“Mmmh,” Dean sighed, eyes closed as Castiel took the glass from his lips. “Feels all sloshy.”

Castiel chuckled, putting down the glass then moving to wrap his arms around Dean, hands set flat against his lower back, one under his shirt. He was warm.

Dean put both his palms on Castiel’s chest as they embraced; one palm pressed into Castiel’s heartbeat, and he imagined Dean had put his hand there so he could feel it beating.

“How long now,” Dean uttered, putting a single kiss to Castiel’s shirt on his shoulder. “About an hour, maybe?”

Castiel nodded. “We can set goals. An hour can be the first one. Once you pass that,” Castiel pulled away, one hand cupped Dean’s jaw, watching that soft expression turn into an even softer smile, “then we can set another smaller goal, until you’re very, very desperate indeed.”

Dean moved in and kissed Castiel’s upper lip, sucking on it. “Mmmyou fhought about thish a lot, di’nt you,” he mumbled, Castiel’s lip in his mouth. “‘s hot that you plann’d thish.”

Castiel turned the sucking into a proper kiss, his tongue slipping into Dean’s mouth to sample the taste of cold water, a layer of it in his mouth, his cheeks, on his tongue. Dean sighed, sucking on Castiel’s tongue until he laughed and slipped away. They both grinned, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.

“I feel so dirty,” Dean grinned, rubbing the back of his head as he turned away. “This is seriously the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Not in private, I mean.”

“What kinky things have you done in private?”

Dean squinted at him. “None of your beeswax, hombre.”

Castiel smirked and sat down, toeing his socks off so he was barefoot. “What would you like to do to pass the time?”

“Something to take my mind off it,” Dean said, sitting beside Castiel and flinging one thigh between each of his, resting it there. “Maybe sex?” He looked at Castiel hopefully.

Castiel watched the blank ceiling for a few seconds, then he looked back to Dean. “We can save sex until the end. You’d probably get hard when you really need to go.”

Dean tipped his head. “True. But if we did it now, Little Dean would have time to recover...” He still seemed so hopeful, Castiel could only smile at how keen he was.

Castiel slid a hand under Dean’s shirt, fingers soaking up the warmth, hearing the sound of skin sliding on skin. He fingered one of Dean’s nipples, and Dean rolled his hips upward.

“Mmh,” he said. “Fuck yeah. That’s good.”

“Nipples?”

Dean nodded. Then he whimpered.

Castiel rested his teeth against Dean’s jaw, running his thumb over the point of Dean’s nipple again, gently fiddling with the nub. “Do you want to take your clothes off?”

Dean hummed. “Yeah, okay.”

Castiel pulled his hands away, hungrily watching Dean’s expression crumble; his desire for Castiel’s touch was great, and Castiel could give and take away. He wanted to make him _need_ it.

“Stand up,” Castiel said, squeezing on Dean’s firm thigh. “Stand up and make yourself naked.”

Dean smiled, coyly watching Castiel’s face as he lifted himself off the couch. “You want a striptease, or what?”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel said, truthfully. “Just be naked.”

After removing his socks, Dean hauled his t-shirt over his head, revealing the wrinkles in his barely-there tummy fat, and the dip of his navel. He took off his wristwatch and the brass amulet around his neck, too, setting them carefully on the coffee table.

Being topless, he showed off the mess of random scars that Castiel had not yet had the time or mood to catalogue. They took some skill to see - they were faded and old, and he only recognised that they were there because he had seen them up close before.

“What?” Dean asked, looking down at himself. He slung an arm slowly across his middle, and Castiel almost gasped, realised Dean thought he was being judged.

“No, don’t... Dean, you don’t need to be shy. Nobody’s looking but me.”

Dean set his lips together. “Yeah, but you’re looking.”

Castiel rolled his shirt sleeves up, then rubbed his palms up his thighs, unable to find reassurance to say aloud. “I... didn’t realise me looking at you was a problem.”

“You’re looking too close,” Dean explained. “Staring.”

Castiel scoffed gently, looking down. “I always stare.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I... I know. I like it. Kinda.”

Castiel met his eye, and Dean shrugged, then parted his lips to add, “Sometimes it makes me feel good. Like, okay, maybe I’m _not_ a walking, talking crash-test dummy. Poked with holes and stuff. But,” he shrugged, looking away, “sometimes I don’t...”

His voice cracked, and he curled his lower lip into his mouth, failing to hide his emotion.

“Dean... _Dean_ ―”

Dean looked up.

“You. You are _beautiful_.”

Dean gritted his teeth, eyes shooting away again, hand clutching tighter to his opposite elbow. “Well, forgive me if I don’t always agree,” he snarled, jaw set. “If you keep saying it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Castiel swallowed. Dean had said the same thing about telling him he loved him.

“But what if I really mean it every time,” Castiel challenged. “You tell your brother you love him, does it mean any less if you say it every day? No. Do you say it because you mean it? Yes. Would you sometimes say it out of habit? You do, I know you do. But, Dean, does that imply that you _don’t_ mean it?”

Dean let out a soft breath, his eyes filled with tears. He shut his mouth and shook his head.

“I mean it, Dean.” Castiel looked pointedly at the scratches of white that were scattered in places on Dean’s ribs. “Every single mark on you is a beauty. Because it’s on _you_. What’s underneath is even more precious, but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I loved that, even more than I love how you look.”

Dean’s eyebrows jumped. “You’re right, I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a good person, Dean.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No matter your failings. The things you wanted to do and didn’t. Lies you’ve told, or will tell in the future. Bad things you’ve done. You still try, Dean. You care. You _want_ to help, and you want to make things better. And you do your best―”

“‘Do your best’ is what they tell eight-year-olds with asthma who can’t finish the hundred-yard race with an egg in a spoon,” Dean snapped. “I’m shit at stuff, Cas. _You’re_ shit at stuff. We’re both just thirty-something fuckups who don’t know what we’re doing with our lives.”

“I know what I’m doing with mine,” Castiel said, quietly. He held out a hand, not moving it, waiting for Dean to reel himself closer.

Dean hesitated. Castiel waited, keeping his arm outstretched.

Then Dean stepped forward, letting his hand drop from his elbow, revealing his tummy to Castiel. Castiel pulled him against his face, kissed his belly, hands on the waistband of his jeans. Kiss, kiss, kiss, rubbing his hands on Dean’s sides.

His skin was scorching hot under Castiel’s lips; soft. Muscle was present, but it was untoned - not firm, but not wasted away, either. He was gorgeous, and Castiel wished so dearly that Dean would understand that. No matter what he looked like, he would always be equally as perfect to Castiel.

Castiel undid Dean’s jeans, mouth still tasting Dean’s hips. Dean curled unsure fingers into Castiel’s hair as Castiel made his belt buckle clink undone, then pulled his zipper down.

Hands slid under the waistband, and Dean’s jeans were dropped to his ankles.

Castiel inhaled the scent of washing powder on Dean’s lace panties, the little white ones, soft and delicate, frills around the top. He could smell Dean’s sex under it, musky and heavy and dark.

Almost in a whisper, Dean asked, “Want me to take them off?”

Castiel shrugged, looking up to meet Dean’s eyes, half-hidden by his glasses frames. “I want you to feel pretty.”

Dean gasped, a tiny, fast intake of breath. Castiel felt his fingers tighten on his scalp, a heat rushing under his skin.

“You like that word, don’t you?” Castiel realised. “‘Pretty’.”

Dean wet his lips. “Y- Yeah.”

Castiel nodded, slowly lowering his eyes to Dean’s navel once more, kissing him again. Unlike confessions of love, some things didn’t need saying every day. He wouldn’t say the word a lot, because he wanted Dean to always react that way, keeping it special.

“Dean?” Castiel kissed the band of his panties, then looked towards his face again. “Dean, do you like spanking?”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. “Holy crap. I swear, you’re still gonna be surprising me when I’m eighty.”

Castiel chuckled, grinning against his tummy, nibbling his skin. “Mm. I... I want to spank you.”

Dean stroked Castiel’s hair backwards, long fingers feeling amazing on his scalp. “But...” Dean stroked him again, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

 _I_ have, Castiel thought.

“It’s not punishment,” Castiel said, easing his nose against Dean’s belly, breathing in the summer-night scent of his skin. “It... It would help you.”

“Help me do what?”

Castiel searched for words. He’d fantasised, but turning it into reality would be hard to explain. “Be... vulnerable. You just let me spank you, and you can cry or you can hurt―”

“You want to make me cry?!”

Castiel panicked. “No!” He bit his inner cheek. “Yes. No. I’m not sure. I like when you cry. Not - oh, merde, not like that...”

Dean crawled forward, sitting on Castiel’s lap, white lace dragging on his black slacks. Castiel leaned back, and Dean hunched forwards, bodies pressed together.

Dean peered at him, his eyes scooting between each of Castiel’s. “You like when I cry.”

“No.”

“You do.”

Castiel opened his mouth, then shut it. “I like when you express emotion.”

Dean smirked. “Like normal people?”

“Emotion isn’t something I see in men a lot,” Castiel said, kissing Dean, then sighing. “You’re always happier after you’ve cried. I love seeing you smile, but if you cry first then you’re happier after.”

Dean blinked a few times, then raised his eyebrows. “Huh. Guess you’re right.”

“If I spank you then you can cry,” Castiel said, leaning upward, hands on Dean’s back, stroking the smooth skin. “And you’ll be safe, and nobody can watch you but me.”

Dean pushed his lips together. “I see what you’re getting at here. This is that _thing_ , where you want me to need you. In a sexy way.”

Castiel couldn’t deny it. “I do want that.”

“Well, I’m already less than an hour away from literally pissing myself with _need_ for you, so don’t push it, buster.”

Castiel smiled at Dean’s willingness to fight him. “And I like when you push back.”

“I’m not a doormat. You don’t get to dictate everything,” Dean said.

“Exactly.” Castiel smiled as Dean kissed him, mouths sealing together, hot.

Dean breathed into Castiel’s mouth, flicked his tongue over his teeth, then broke away. “I don’t need spanking,” he said, watching Castiel’s mouth. “Even if it’s nice spanking. I don’t have anything to get out of my system any more.”

“Yes, you do.” Castiel cupped the nape of his neck, bringing Dean’s throat down so he could mouth against him. “You’re upset about a lot of things.”

“Doesn’t mean I need to cry about it.”

“You’ve been bad,” Castiel whispered, more desperate now. “Dean, you’ve been very naughty.”

Dean made a little sound, wriggling closer, groins pressing together as Dean adjusted his weight on Castiel’s lap. Castiel whimpered, rolling his hips against Dean’s lacy panties, feeling his heat, his softness. He watched where they touched, then his eyes shot to Dean’s. His glasses were steaming from Castiel’s breath.

“Dean - you’ve broken the law, you... you need to be punished.” He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. “You should be spanked. You need to be spanked.”

Dean shook his head, his mouth a little open. “No, I don’t,” he replied, everything about him soft as he cradled Castiel’s head.

Castiel nodded, reaching his face to breathe against Dean’s chin. “You do. Yes, you do, Dean. Please. Please let me spank you.”

“No, Cas. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Castiel’s eyes glazed over with tears, and he didn’t know where they came from, what they were doing there; his face grew hot, his breath hastening. His hands weren’t full of enough of Dean’s perfect lace panties, he couldn’t hold him hard enough. “I have to spank you.”

Dean kissed Castiel’s forehead. “I haven’t done anything _wrong_. This isn’t about me.”

Castiel whined, pushing himself into Dean, bucking. “Need to.”

Dean kissed him again.

“Dean, you’re― You’re a cheater. You’re a liar. A betrayer. Thief,” Castiel breathed, biting Dean’s collarbone. “I have to spank you, need to, I need to. Been so bad. Please, _please_ Dean. You have to―”

“Cas.”

Castiel looked up, vision shimmering with trapped emotion.

Dean kissed the tip of his nose. “Cas, do you want me to spank _you_?”

Castiel froze. He heard the question.

Then, very slowly, he nodded. _Please, please, please._

But then he burst into tears.

Dean didn’t know what to do with his hands at first, Castiel was just grabbing him, trying to hold all of him at once. Guilty. Guilty of everything.

Guilt had lit the end of a string, and slowly the ignition had grown nearer, nearer, and all at once, Castiel was rushing with it, surrounded by it. All he needed was Dean, in him, around him.

“Cas, it’s okay, it’s _okay_ ,” Dean whispered, one arm around Castiel’s head, securing him. The other hand rubbed down Castiel’s bicep, long strokes, petting strokes. “Cas... oh, Cas...”

Castiel wrapped his arms tightly around Dean’s back, squashed him against him. He could smell Dean all over, his skin pressed to his face, hearing his heartbeat. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh-shh-shh, it’s okay,” Dean whispered, kissing the top of Castiel’s head. “You didn’t know how to ask.”

“I don’t―” he sobbed, grappling to bring Dean even closer, “I don’t actually want to be spanked. I don’t. I want to cry. Oh, Dean, I just want to cry.”

Dean cuddled him, stroked him. “Feel better after?”

Castiel nodded, his tears making his cheeks stick to Dean’s chest. “You make it okay. When I cry. You look after me.”

Dean chuckled, kissed Castiel’s head again. “That’s what comes of thirty years of looking after Sammy’s bruised knees. C’mon, let it out. I’ve got you.”

Castiel wailed out a horrible sound against Dean, teeth on him, gentle but angry. “Dean, I can’t―” he hiccuped, “can’t believe I brought you up here just for this. I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Dean was smiling against his forehead. “Hey, Cas - wanna know a secret?”

“Hmhh?”

Dean wriggled on him, rubbing his crotch against him for a fleeting moment. “I kinda like when you cry. Means I get to cuddle you and not worry I’m being too clingy.”

Castiel sniffed, trying to see through his tears but not managing it. “Y- You worry about that? Why?”

Dean stroked Castiel’s shoulder, his cheek resting on Castiel’s hair. “Never really know when I’ll overstay my welcome. I like physical touch and affection ‘n stuff. Don’t exactly get that when you’re running a jewel heist with a bunch of other men with guns and a couple hundred years past jail-time between them.”

Castiel sniffled against Dean, wriggling his nose as it began to feel watery. “You’re always welcome here.”

“That’s what I told you about my place, you didn’t seem to agree.”

“I worry,” Castiel smiled, still shivering in Dean’s arms. “I... don’t want to overstep.”

“‘xactly. And you know something else?”

“Hm?”

“When you get cuddly it means I get control for a while. I―” Dean shrugged, bumping Castiel’s nose. “I like that, too. Looking after you right back. You keep giving me things...” Dean pulled his arms off Castiel, rocking back so he could meet his eye. Castiel could barely see him through his tears. “Me, I don’t know what to give you. Can’t buy you shit, you’ve already got everything. I wanna spoil you too, but fuck if I’ll ever find a way to do that.”

Castiel put a terribly wet kiss on Dean’s lips, and Dean was kind enough not to pull away.

“I have you,” Castiel whispered, sniffing again, feeling a fresh tear slither down his cheek. “You’re better than anything that even vaguely resembles a pony.”

Dean chuckled, then laughed, folding himself over Castiel’s head again. He kissed Castiel’s neck, smoochy little kisses. “I love you, you stupid fucker.”

Castiel sobbed a laugh, pushing out more tears against Dean’s heart. “Thank you.”

Dean didn’t really need to ask what Castiel was thanking him for. He petted Castiel, touched him, kissed him, and let him cry.

Minutes went by, but altogether that time didn’t seem as long as it really was. Castiel tried not to think about all the things he was crying about, hoping his subconscious would link it for him so he wouldn’t need to suffer the weight of it all.

Stress, mostly. Situations piling up.

Guilt.

He wanted everything to be okay, and Dean was the only person in his life who would give him that. Castiel never wanted this to end; this comfort was a one-of-a-kind feeling. He felt so safe, so relieved.

The fallen angel had found his wings again, but this time, they weren’t feathery, and they wouldn’t help him fly. They were hands, and those hands held him down, soothed him.

Those wings were Dean.

Eventually, Dean sighed and sat back, his weight on his ass, heavy on the middles of Castiel’s thigh bones. Dean used each of his thumbs to wipe away the dribbling tears that stuck to Castiel’s cheeks, and he offered Castiel a smile. “There,” he said. “Better?”

Castiel took Dean’s hands, held them. He nodded.

“Good.” Dean leaned in, turning his head to kiss Castiel without poking him with his glasses.

Castiel loved that one kiss. It was perfect; so simple: lip to lip. A kiss of familiarity, of settled emotion. It was the kind of kiss he wanted to get every morning, every night, a kiss that said ‘hello’, a kiss that said ‘goodnight’; a kiss that said ‘I love you’, a kiss that said ‘you’re all right’.

Castiel smiled weakly, rubbing the fine hairs that covered Dean’s bare thighs. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Dean’s funny little smile quirked up one side of his face. “God knows. You slobbered all over me.”

Castiel gave an apologetic smile. “Stand up, I’ll fetch something to clean you up.”

Dean slowly clambered to stand, his bare feet rubbing over one another, probably cold. Castiel dragged an open hand over his waist as he went past, a silent praise, wordless thanks. A compliment. _You’re beautiful._

Castiel went to his bedroom and came back with a pack of moist towelettes, which he set down on the nearest couch cushion.

“You keep those in your bedroom?”

Castiel smiled as he wandered into the kitchen. “They make cleaning up easier.”

“You don’t jerk off in the shower?”

“And in bed.”

Dean locked his hands behind his neck. Castiel could see him peering into the kitchen, watching as Castiel opened the fridge and pulled out a leftover pudding.

“So... how many times a week do you jerk off, on average?” Dean asked, head cocked to one side as Castiel approached, pudding in hand.

Castiel smiled, sitting down, leaning back so Dean could slide into his lap again, one leg either side of him like before. “Usually twice a day.”

“That often? How?” Dean balked, eyes chasing Castiel’s hands as he put the pudding down and picked up the towelettes instead. “You take Viagra?”

Castiel chuckled, shaking his head. He was still muggy from his tears, but Dean made him smile and the heavy feeling swam away from him. “For years my hand was the only relief I had. The need for that activity never really waned.”

“Years?” Dean blinked rapidly, watching Castiel as he wiped his own face with the towelette, then Dean’s chest, swiping away the sticky smears of tears. “You’re saying you didn’t have sex much since you got your, uh, y’know.”

“HIV, yes. I told you I don’t like condoms. And I never wanted to really experience some things. I honestly thought my sex life was over.” Castiel kept his eyes down, swiping the damp tissue-cloth over Dean’s nipples, watching them harden at the coldness that was left behind.

“Then I came along,” Dean chuckled.

“Yes.” Castiel kissed his heart. “Then you came along and you broke my life.”

Dean murmured an excited noise, hips shifting as he pushed against Castiel. “Kinda romantic.”

Castiel glanced down, eyeing the semi-erection that Dean sported, pushing against the white lace. “Romance excites you?”

Dean nodded. “I like feeling good. When people get all emotional about each other, that’s hot as hell.” He grinned, kissing the top of Castiel’s head. “You ever watched _Dr. Sexy_?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s a show about horny doctors. Everyone falls in love. It’s either that or they fuck in the break room. It’s totally awesome.”

Castiel smiled, putting Dean’s nipple between his lips, making a loud noise as he suckled it. Dean made a soft moaning sound, relaxing into Castiel.

“Mhh, that’s good.” He let out a long breath. “S- So - um, Cas, why did you bring the pot of stuff?”

Castiel removed his mouth from Dean’s nipple, glancing at the creamy-yellow pudding that Dean had picked up from the couch. “It’s one of my mother’s recipes. It’s... very sweet, a bit like custard or crumble or tiramisu.”

“Which of those?” Dean asked. “Those three are completely different.”

Castiel took the pudding from him, dipping a finger into it. It was cold from the fridge, and he could feel it sticking to his finger, a little _blup_ of air from the inside freeing itself past the side of his knuckle. He lifted the finger, and, crooking it, he raised it to his mouth and sucked it.

The pudding was sweet and creamy, tiny dots of crumble flattening like pastry against Castiel’s tongue as he rolled it against his palate. Seeing Dean’s mouth slide open was equally as delicious.

Swallowing, Castiel returned his hand to the pudding and slid a different finger into it. With pudding surrounding that finger, he set it inside Dean’s open mouth, savouring the moment Dean sealed his lips around it, his tongue _hot_ and _moving_ against Castiel’s fingertip.

With his own mouth hanging open, Castiel slid his finger out. Dean smirked and bit his fingertip before he had removed it completely.

“Do you like it?” Castiel asked, watching Dean’s mouth, then his dark eyes in turn.

Dean rolled the taste around his mouth, then nodded. “Yeah. You’re right, it actually is like custard-crumble-tiramisu. You could call it... uh, custirumble.”

Castiel snorted with amusement, scooping another little mouthful onto his tongue, holding onto it for a moment before swallowing. “My mother called this one ‘Gabriel’.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, really?”

Castiel nodded, taking advantage of Dean’s open mouth to feed him some more pudding. “She named everything she ever made after angels.”

“So―” Dean swallowed, “the one you brought to my shop, the white one with the berries?”

“Haniel.”

Dean’s eyebrows jumped, closing his eyes as Castiel fed him another fingerful. Castiel’s finger lingered in his mouth long enough that Dean swallowed around him. With a smile, he pulled free.

“All right, then.” Dean licked his lips, eyes tracking the movement as Castiel sucked his own thumb. “Did she ever name anything ‘Castiel’?”

Castiel almost choked on his pudding in his surprise. He lowered the pot, and met Dean’s eye as he nodded. “She named me.”

Shaking his head, Dean said, “You told me you made the name up.”

“I thought I did.” Castiel held a finger up for Dean to lick clean. Dean lapped at it like a cat, long upward strokes; his tongue was wet and it shivered, but he left no trace of pudding at all, and once he was finished, Castiel dipped his finger into the pot again to give Dean some more.

“I thought it was all a game of mine,” he said, watching Dean lick. “Then I was talking to my father the other day. He’d been―” dip, lick, “explaining things to me, telling me things he thinks I have a right to know.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “Things I should have been told decades ago.”

“Like the fact your mother gave you a different name?!”

Castiel nodded.

Dean swallowed his pudding, this time taking the pot off Castiel and dipping his own fingers into it, three of them, and sliding them into Castiel’s mouth without a word of warning. Castiel felt a burst of pleasure, somehow enjoying being surprised like that. He held Dean’s eye as he sucked, slowly, seductively, tracing his tongue around every round, thick shape of Dean’s fingers.

When Dean slid his fingers out, Castiel gulped, then answered, “My mother and him fought a lot. I’m not sure if it ever became physical - if it was, my father would never say it to me. But I always heard shouting and screaming. It seemed that was how they communicated on a daily basis.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, sucking his own fingers, then offering the same ones to Castiel, without a trace of pudding in sight. Castiel kissed them anyway.

“My father didn’t like that she loved someone else,” he said, pressing his lips together once Dean went to fish for more pudding. “I never met the other man, and I... I only understood the reason for that when my father was talking the other day. Telling me things.”

“Why was it?”

Castiel paused to suck Dean’s fingers, then took the pot and began offering Dean some more. Dean sighed and closed his eyes, moaning as Castiel stroked his tongue with a fingertip.

“Because,” Castiel said, “the other man wasn’t a man at all.”

“A chick?”

“No, but if that were true, my father might’ve been able to accept that better than the truth.”

“So what was the truth?”

Castiel scooped up the last of the pudding on two fingers, put one into his own mouth, and automatically, Dean sank his lips around the second. They sat joined for a little while, Castiel feeling his own tongue on one finger and Dean’s tongue on the other; their mouths were the same, both eager, hot.

Dean pulled away first, and put down the empty pot beside them.

“The truth,” Castiel sighed, licking his lips bare of a dot of crumble, “is that she spent all her time in the church. Praying to God that she’d be free of my father, that an angel would come one day and save her. She would take sunflowers and lay them on the altar.”

Dean kept his eyes down, a sadness curving his mouth. “Well, shit.”

Castiel let Dean lift his hand up, and Dean started to wipe it clean with a fresh towelette; cool and damp. Its perfumed scent was sharp, and it mingled with the pudding and covered up the enjoyable aftertaste, so Castiel held his breath. But he gave up almost immediately, and sighed.

“Father didn’t want me to be named after an angel,” he told Dean. “So he named me after himself. James. Which is... quite the opposite.”

He took the towelette and began to wipe Dean’s fingers.

“I guess they found middle-ground with ‘Emanuel’,” Dean mused, allowing Castiel to swipe his palms, dipping the towelette between his parted fingers.

Castiel nodded. “That name means ‘God is with us’. But it’s not what is on my birth certificate.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Your real name is ‘Cas’?!”

Castiel smiled, nodding. “It is.”

“Is this... You’re not pulling an _Importance of Being Earnest_ here, are you? Telling me your name is Cas but actually you have no fucking clue?”

Castiel shook his head, smile fading. Dean didn’t trust him, and that _hurt_. “You don’t take me at my word any more, do you?”

Dean pursed his lips, trying to hide the fact that he wasn’t smiling. “Can’t exactly blame me...”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “I suppose not.” It was his own fault.

He looked down as he finished cleaning Dean’s hands, still playing about with his fingers, rounding knuckles and smoothing over his palms with his own fingers. “I hope...”

“Hm?”

“I hope one day you’ll trust me again.” Castiel met Dean’s eye, trying not to be sad.

Dean let go of his hands and put his palms around Castiel’s face instead. He leaned in, a frown on his face and his jaw set. “I _do_ trust you. Cas, I would trust you with my _life_. But that doesn’t mean I can spot when you start fibbing to impress me. I thought you had a tell before, but then I realised I’m actually just total crap at reading people’s tiny body signals.”

Castiel tapped the tips of his teeth together behind his lips, unsure of what to say in reply.

Dean shook his head and squashed their lips together. He pecked him, then rested their mouths against each other, breathing the same air.

Then, “...Cas?”

“Yes?”

Dean licked his lips, and tasted Castiel’s lips at the same time. “I, uh, kinda need to pee.”

Castiel glanced at the clock behind Dean, above the TV. “It’s two-fifteen, it’s only been forty minutes. Hold it for another twenty.”

“What if I gotta go before then?”

Castiel shook his head, aroused by Dean’s blush. “Hold it.”

Dean made a noise and squirmed, smiling a little. “I love that. You telling me to hold it. Mm.”

Castiel kissed his lips, both hands shoving against his ass, pressing the shape of delicate lace against his smooth skin. “If it’s any consolation, I can’t wait either. But being patient is part of the fun.”

“Yeah.” Dean grinned, glasses riding up against Castiel’s forehead as Dean knocked them. “God, we’re both so sick.”

“It’s normal.”

Dean laughed. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s a basic human function, Dean. Same as ejaculation. It comes out of the same hole, for god’s sake. If one is pleasure, why can’t the other be, too?”

Dean shrugged, carding his hands through Castiel’s hair, tugging it. “You make a good point.”

“And besides that,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s neck, a hand trailing to rub Dean’s tummy, “it makes you feel more when you have sex.”

Dean nodded, a tiny whimper escaping his lips. “Feels so good, it’s crazy. I come harder when I need to go, I come longer. Feels, like, twice as good. Fuck.”

Castiel dipped his hand inside Dean’s panties, stroking Dean’s plumping semi-erection, hot silky-smooth skin under his fingertips. “Let me reach the table, I’ll get you some more water.”

Dean ground his hips down, legs splaying outward as he ran his cock against Castiel’s palm; lace stuttered on the back of Castiel’s hand, and his fingers filled with hot, soft flesh. Dean lowed, a long, quiet note.

They held that position, and Castiel counted three heavy, lusting throbs given by the organ in his hand.

Then, at Castiel’s shove, Dean gave a flighty grin and stood up.

On total impulse, Castiel grabbed Dean’s panties and pulled them to his mid-thighs. Dean gasped, exposed; Castiel’s cock pushed instantly against the inside of his slacks, hardening, his eyes on the bare shapes he had revealed.

With a tiny grin, Dean asked, “What was that for?”

Castiel flicked his eyes up, resting his hands on his own thighs. He supposed he ought to have foreseen Dean’s total indifference to being violated unexpectedly. “Dean. Could you act embarrassed? For me?”

Without hesitation, Dean pulled his bowed legs together at the knee, hands sliding down to cover his crotch, his slowly firming erection hidden below his flared hands. “You― You pulled my little panties down...” He whimpered, childish, one hand snatching at the lace to retrieve the small modesty it offered, wriggling them back up his thighs, barely covering himself.

Castiel felt such intense _arousal_. It was so unlike the real Dean, he would never behave that way. Having Dean do as he asked, having him act like that... Oh, it was repulsive, it felt like cruelty on Castiel’s part. But he felt so powerful. That power was pushing a strain into his suit pants, and he rubbed at himself, licking his lips, watching Dean fidget with his panties, straightening them, trying to cover his erection like he was shamed by it.

“Perfect,” Castiel whispered, turning his eyes up to Dean’s face. “Thank you, Dean, that was perfect.”

“You like that?”

Castiel nodded.

Dean’s eyelashes fluttered, his lips parted and shiny. He shook his head in wonder as he looked Castiel up and down, taking in his rumpled work shirt, the obvious firmness between his legs, his bare feet, his hungry, _hungry_ eyes.

“So, uh - um,” Dean tilted his head, “H- How about that water, huh?”

Castiel remembered himself, smiling slightly as he stood up. With his gaze set on Dean, he stood beside him, then bent to serve him another glass of water.

Dean smacked Castiel’s ass.

Castiel straightened up with a full glass in hand, eyebrows raised. Dean looked back at him, eyes darting between each of Castiel’s, his expression somewhere between playful and challenging.

“What,” Dean said. He shrugged. “Maybe I feel like I got duped on the spanking thing. You set me up and then I didn’t get to have a single go at it.”

Castiel stepped close, posture held hard, trying to make up for the inch of height that Dean had over him. He grasped Dean by the back of his head, and Dean breathed fast, gaze scattering as he most likely imagined all the punishments he could be about to receive.

Castiel smiled, opening his mouth as his thoughts landed on something that he knew would make Dean squirm.

Dean gulped, like he knew what was coming a second before it happened.

Castiel tipped the glass of water down his front, slowly, groaning a slow note as he did it. “That’s it, Dean,” he whispered, watching the liquid seep down Dean’s abdomen, soaking into the lace, turning it a darker white, making the fabric stick to his cock, showing up the colour of his skin. “That’s it, you wet your panties, just like that.”

Dean got a little harder.

When water was dripping onto the carpet, _pat-patpat-pat_ , Castiel set his eyes on Dean’s face. But Dean was looking down, still looking at how his panties had become heavy with liquid, sagging with their own weight.

Dean looked up slowly, eyes darker than Castiel had ever seen them before. “You,” Dean said, “are so fucking nasty.”

Castiel smirked, enjoying the excited smile Dean failed to hide.

Dean licked at his lips. His gaze then sank to Castiel’s mouth, and stayed there. “Good boy,” he said to Castiel.

In context it didn’t make sense. But to Castiel, it was pure glory.

He pulled Dean’s head closer and forced his mouth open with a hard, bruising kiss. Dean held onto Castiel’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him steady. They snarled noises into each other’s mouths, sneering their ruined expressions, devouring each other’s mouths with their own. They panted like fighting animals, working their jaws furiously.

Castiel was aflame, physical sensation darting under his skin like scattering sparks. He felt as if he’d become a puppet master, his actions ruling over a bratty, broken toy. Dean was so much more than that, but this kiss, this _night_ \- Dean was letting him play. Castiel had the reins, and Dean would follow where he led him.

When Castiel broke the kiss, he grinned and shot forward again to lick Dean’s lips, touching their tongues together.

“That was mean of me,” Castiel admitted, relaxing his posture as he stepped away. “I’m getting too forceful. I’m just―” He poured another glass of water, emptying the jug. He hummed, still thinking of a term. “I’m _horny_. And I feel like I’ve been starved of this kind of command for too long.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean said, reassuring Castiel for what was probably the fiftieth time. Castiel turned to see him shimmying out of his wet panties, leaving shiny marks down his slender legs as he wriggled them off. Dean sighed as he straightened, eyes on the glass, then Castiel. He smirked. “I like it. Whatever this is. It’s kinda hot.”

Castiel pushed Dean down onto the couch, careful to keep the water unspilled. He clambered over Dean, sat on his lap, lifted the glass to his lips. “Open your mouth.”

Dean obeyed, hands sliding to grasp Castiel’s hips. Castiel began to pour the water past his lips, cherishing the moment Dean shut his eyes and began to gulp and swallow every drop down without pause, without fear; if Castiel had been worried Dean didn’t trust him, this was proof otherwise. He was a kitten under Castiel’s hands, giving himself over completely.

Castiel emptied the glass, let the last drip fall onto Dean’s chin in a dribble. Growling, Castiel lowered his face and licked it up, licked into Dean’s mouth, sucked on his lips, on his tongue, _bit_ him, swallowed around his mouth. He’d never been this greedy for anything - Dean’s kisses left him with the best kind of dissatisfaction: he would always want more.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, thumping his head against the backrest of the couch. “Gotta piss so bad, you’re pressing my bladder.”

Castiel tossed the empty glass onto the cushion beside where they sat, careless to where it landed. Eyes on Dean’s fluttering eyelids, he bumped against his body, putting weight on Dean’s middle. Powerful, voracious.

Dean moaned, mouth open. Castiel put fingers inside, pushing on his wet tongue, still feeling a coldness on his saliva from the water. Dean made one deep, throaty noise, shutting his mouth to suck on Castiel’s fingers. Castiel rubbed against him, humping, pulsing, heavy and hard.

Dean’s tongue on his fingers made Castiel want to fuck that mouth. Make that tongue lick him.

He’d never wanted so much from Dean before. When they’d met, he was happy with the smallest, tiniest touches. They made him crave more, yes, but one touch could satisfy for a few days before he’d move in for more. Now he wanted wholesome grasping, pulling and biting and _thumping_ bodies, he wanted passion with endless skies and endless vibrating below the ground, he wanted to _fuck_ , he wanted to destroy. Power―

Power, in the softest touches.

Castiel pulled his fingers out, gently, slowly, caressing Dean’s face as he went. Castiel’s baby, his precious, precious angel.

Breakable, unbreakable.

He could do whatever he wanted, and Dean would let him, but no matter what - he still craved those tiny touches, so very dearly. The single kisses - kiss, kiss, _I love you_ \- the stroke of his fingertips, the slide of their fingers together, holding hands.

Castiel shifted off Dean’s lap, sat down beside him. “Come closer,” he said, stroking Dean’s thigh. “Sit on my lap.”

Dean almost rolled on top of him, his erection whacking onto the dry cloth of Castiel’s shirt as he knelt either side of his legs. Dean rubbed a hand down Castiel’s chest, breathing out a soft sound.

His eyes widened as he felt Castiel curl his hands around his naked waist. “Oh,” he sighed, pleasure flooding his expression as Castiel brought him close just to hug him. Castiel kissed his freckled shoulder, swayed him in his arms, making the smallest of movements together.

Castiel rocked him, then leaned back to let Dean rest upon his chest.

“You like this better, don’t you,” Castiel observed. “When I’m gentle, you like it.”

Dean breathed out, eyes wandering as he considered. “I... I like both. When you’re grabby and bitey, that make me - kind of - _boil_ , you know? Really hot, really quick. Gets to my head. But then... mmh―”

He got lost in the nibbling kisses Castiel set behind his ear, the tugging bites he gave his earlobe. Castiel could smell his skin, his evaporating sweat.

Dean struggled to speak, but he found his words; “But wh-when you do that? Oh... oh god. Oh god... fuck, I love that, I love it. Kiss me, kiss me...” He mewled, hips grinding softly, rolling his hard flesh against Castiel’s stomach. “That makes me hot too.”

Then he gasped, hands clutched in Castiel’s hair. “You could do that, give me itty-bitty butterfly kisses all over, just... god, just tell me I’m pretty, just love me. I’d come. Oh god, Cas, I love you, I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s so hot. It turns me on so much, being in love. Fuck, I’m gonna cry... I’m gonna cry...”

Castiel cuddled Dean gently, stroked down his back. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not. I’m...” Dean burst out a weak breath. “It makes me so happy, feeling like this.” He kissed Castiel’s cheek, hot breath caught against his skin and rebounding to steam up Dean’s glasses. “It’s happy emotion. I love this kind of sex, makin’ love. I never told anyone. I never said a word of it, and I never had it before.” He breathed, blinking quickly to shift the shine of tears away. “I never made _love_ before I made love with you.”

Castiel filled his mouth with a swelling kiss, soft breaths passed into him, passed back. Dean swallowed and separated their lips, letting out a tiny sound, _mm_. Light fingers danced down the side of Castiel’s face, and as Castiel looked up into Dean’s eyes, he felt what Dean felt - that oozing, heart-melting kind of pleasure. Sexual, romantic. Beautiful in human ways.

There was a connection between them, that which Castiel knew for certain would be impossible to feel for anyone else.

Dean was all his. And he was all Dean’s.

“I...” Dean swallowed, parted his lips with his tongue, hands making ceaseless strokes down Castiel’s face, fingertips and thumbs. “This whole thing about me being... gentle? It was my big secret. One of them. But not really from you, from everyone else. I’m just a high-maintenance romantic thirty-five-year-old chick stuck in a dude’s body. Sure, I like shooting things, but it’s not like chicks don’t dig doing that too. Nobody―”

He frowned, breath catching as his hand stopped stroking Castiel, and he looked down. “Nobody told me I’m pretty. It’s a real stupid thing to want, I never knew how to tell people I wanted that. I figure, even if I did ask, they’d just... y’know. Say it but not mean it.”

Dean pressed a small smile between his full lips. “You keep saying I’m - beautiful,” he stumbled on the word, laughing at it, like it was ridiculous. “But... I dunno, when I first met you, you said you didn’t care about physical appearance. Didn’t _value_ it, or something. But then you started calling me beautiful...”

Castiel watched Dean’s face and didn’t say anything. Hearing this made him feel wonderful, special. Needed.

Dean’s eyes flicked to Castiel’s, then away again, smiling in embarrassment. “I, uh. At first I didn’t think you meant it for real. I don’t take compliments about my appearance well. Wh... When I was... growing up...” His voice cracked, his mask fell a bit; he was upset. Castiel held him, started to rub his back again.

“When I was a kid, a teenager. Guys, older guys - they called me a girl, or ‘pretty-boy’, or... shit like that. But they didn’t exactly mean it nicely. Kinda derogatory. Or whatever.” He gulped, not meeting Castiel’s eye. “And I didn’t feel good about―” he gestured at his own naked body, lying on Castiel, “all of this. I forced muscle on myself, tried to make me look... less girly. Cut my eyelashes short, this one time.” He frowned deeply, jaw setting as he tried to look even further away.

Castiel took Dean’s jaw in a hand and pulled his face gently to meet his own. He offered a smile. Dean’s lips wobbled and he broke out a small smirk, then nodded, making to continue.

“But then Dad died.” He sighed, shifting his hips, making Castiel aware that both their erections had faded. “And stuff got easier, he didn’t get to call me a little bitch or a pussy or a pansy or tease me about putting dresses on and going to flirt with the rich men we were trying to rob.” Dean shrugged, pretending that wasn’t as hurtful a memory as Castiel saw it really was.

“And I finally got to try it out,” Dean whispered, eyes on Castiel’s shoulder, telling a secret. “All the things people teased me about. Because they must’ve seen it, seen the way I looked at guys, or at strippers in satin panties. Sometimes, earlier on, I didn’t even really _like_ the girls I was with, all I wanted was their panties, just bedded the chicks cause I got to feel their underwear rubbing on me, imagine wearing it. I’d take it sometimes. Steal their stupid panties.” He looked away again, ashamed and upset. “Dad and Adam and Sammy maybe saw them in my bag, I don’t know what they thought.”

He shook his head, lifting a hand to thumb at his forehead. “I like how I look,” he breathed. He seemed so _ashamed_ of the words he said. Castiel hurt inside - there was something terribly wrong with that, but didn’t know what to say to fix it.

“I like... I like having long eyelashes and freckles and girly lips.” He looked like he was about to cry, Castiel couldn’t do any more than keep cuddling him. “I just... I don’t like the scars my life put on me. That time I told you I didn’t care about the scars, that was bullshit. I fucking _care_. Or that if people say nice things about me, I can’t tell if they mean it, or if they’re teasing me.”

“I mean it,” Castiel said, stroking Dean’s hair. “I’ve always meant it.”

Dean nodded, accepting that. “Yeah.” His mouth was shaking, breath uneven. “Yeah, I believe you.”

He broke into a tiny laugh, and he wriggled against Castiel, pushing his cheek to Castiel’s shoulder, giving him a tight hug.

“I, uh, I really like when you treat me... like I’m―”

He ended his sentence, then huffed.

He gulped, then tried again. “Sometimes, I like being treated like crap. Spat on or pissed on or messed around. I like getting hurt when I fuck someone. But there’s other times, and― God. I wanna be treated like...” His eyelashes fluttered on Castiel’s neck, and Castiel felt him exhale sharply. “Christ, fine, I’ll say it. A princess. Wanna be treated like a princess. I love... movies about princesses, and ballet, and crap like that. I only ever told Charlie that. She kind of knows about this stuff, I think.”

He kissed Castiel’s neck, then rocked back and rested in a kneel, legs spread apart over Castiel’s thighs. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, the other hand locked in Castiel’s hair. “Don’t... Don’t tell anyone I told you all this shit.”

“I won’t tell,” Castiel smiled. “I promise.” He rubbed at Dean’s thighs, reaching the fingers of one hand upwards as Dean slid his own hand to lock over Castiel’s.

Dean swallowed, the hand in Castiel’s hair becoming a fist. “But just to clarify... The princess thing. I’m not a crossdresser or anything. My panties aren’t for women, they’re for _me_.” He pulled a face. “Aw fuck, that sounds so pretentious. But I like pretty things, is all. And feeling good.”

“Much like the rest of the human race,” Castiel said.

Dean chuckled. “Heh. Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” He shifted a shoulder, breathing in. “I feel so fucking unmanly right now. If my dad saw me like this, saying this, he’d shoot me himself.”

Castiel shook his head. “He’s not here. It’s only me. This is private.”

Dean nodded, lifting a hand to rub at his tired eyes under his glasses frames. He held back a yawn, blinking hard. “Why is it,” he said, flopping back onto Castiel’s chest, “that whenever I talk to you, we always end up sobbing our hearts out?”

Castiel kissed the top of Dean’s forehead, breathing in his basic, oily scent. “Because neither of us have had the chance to speak openly before.”

“I talk with Sammy. But it’s never like this.”

“He’s your brother,” Castiel reasoned. “You can’t tell him everything. Sometimes people are too close to you to listen without personal input.”

Dean hummed agreement. “Charlie’s easier to share with.”

“Yes, I suppose she must be.”

Dean heaved an exhale, sinking his weight deeper against Castiel. “Hey, how much time left on the clock?”

Castiel glanced at the silver dial on the wall. “Eight minutes until the hour is up.”

“When that’s over, what’s the second goal?” He shifted on Castiel’s lap, ever so slightly. “Don’t think I could manage it if you made it, like, half an hour. I could maybe do...” Dean paused, and Castiel felt his body contracting, muscles testing how desperate he was. “Another twenty after that. At most, total.” He pulled away from Castiel, a faint blush on the highest parts of his cheeks. “After then I’m either using the safeword or I’m pissing on your carpet.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Dean blushed harder, smirking as he buried his face against Castiel’s throat. “I wouldn’t. But I might. But I... wouldn’t.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll try not to.”

Castiel kissed his eyebrow, smiling. He skimmed over Dean’s back with his hand, smooth skin sliding under his palm. “When you say it so flippantly - it either makes me feel horrible or it turns me on. I can’t tell which.”

“For me... it’s a bit of both,” Dean said, quietly. “Feeling really bloated right now. On one hand it feels really gross and scary and I really want it to stop, and I hate you for making me do this. But on the other side there’s this... dunno. Hot. Naughty.”

“It’s a... peculiar taboo,” Castiel muttered.

Dean nodded, bristly cheek rubbing on Castiel’s shirt collar. “Like spanking. Except that’s a pretty mainstream thing, I guess. See it in porn all the time.”

Castiel rumbled a noncommittal note. He didn’t really feel up to saying that Dean was probably looking for porn in the wrong place. Variety was one major bonuses of the internet, there was no longer a need for Castiel to depend on pay-per-view for ‘mainstream’ things. On the internet, _anything_ was mainstream.

“Hey,” Dean said, perking up suddenly. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Porn?”

Dean shook his head. “The regular kind.”

Castiel frowned, looking up at Dean’s quirked smile. “Would you survive a whole movie?”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. But it would distract me. Right now all I can think about is how it felt when you poured water in my panties. Wet. Like... really wet. It’s not exactly helping.”

Castiel smirked, proud of himself. He slapped Dean’s thighs as he sat up. “What movie would you like to watch?”

Dean got to his feet, then winced and stuck his hand against his gentials, squeezing. He glanced at Castiel, then away. “Sorry. Uh... _Little Shop of Horrors_.”

“We saw that in the theatre,” Castiel said, but headed for his TV anyway, where his copy of the DVD rested, unwatched as of yet.

“The movie ends differently,” Dean said, sitting on the couch, still completely naked as he spread his legs and rested his forearms on his thighs, positioned as he usually would be. “You’d like this ending better. Or - I do, at least.”

Dean took the remote from Castiel as the film began. Dean began to fast-forward through scenes, and Castiel sat down and frowned, wondering why Dean wanted to watch this if he meant to skip most of it.

“There,” Dean said, letting the movie play. He turned the volume up, and sank back against the couch, one ankle hooked over his knee, arms spread on the backrest.

Castiel plucked the empty glass out of the couch cushions under him and returned it to the coffee table, then set his attention on the movie.

Dean had begun well past the middle of the story, and on Castiel’s huge plasma screen, the clumsy, bespectacled Seymour was pacing in an alleyway, talking to himself.

“You remember what happened before?” Dean asked, glancing over.

Castiel’s eyebrow twitched. “If you hadn’t skipped so much, I’d have some context.”

“Seymour’s gonna get a bunch of money ‘cause he got really famous with his cool new plant,” Dean explained, gesturing at the screen as Audrey told Seymour the exact same thing. “And in a minute he’s gonna propose to Audrey because he wants to run away with her, and the next day he’ll have the cash to do it.”

“How romantic,” Castiel said, flatly.

Dean shot him a playful glare. “It _is_.”

Castiel almost smiled, watching Seymour ask his beloved if she wanted to marry him. _Sure,_ Audrey said. And that was it. That was all they needed. _We’ll go get married, right now!_

Castiel covered his mouth with a hand, casually hiding his smile. He wanted that with Dean, such a straightforward way to tell him he wanted to spend his whole life with him. The promises of a home together were not empty promises. Castiel wanted it more than anything.

“...Cas, are you crying?”

Castiel shot Dean a fast glance. “What? No!”

Dean shut his mouth. “Oh. Okay, you sniffed, I thought...”

Castiel put on his poker face and turned his eyes to the screen.

Dean started skipping parts of the movie, and Castiel tried to complain, “This is no way to watch anything, Dean,” but Dean didn’t stop.

“There’s half an hour left on this thing, I won’t hold on that long. I just want you to see the main plot points, and the difference between this one and the theatre version.”

Castiel, for a little while, was more intent on watching Dean curl his legs together, crossing and uncrossing them, fiddling with the TV remote as he grunted and squirmed. Castiel smirked, glad to see Dean physically reacting to what Castiel was doing to him. Doing _with_ him.

They saw the part where the evil man-eating plant named Audrey II attempted to eat the human Audrey, and Seymour turned up to rescue her. Then they watched the part where Audrey told Seymour she didn’t love him for his success with the plant, but had loved him since the day they first met.

“Are you trying to make a point?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to watch Dean palm his semi-erection.

Dean’s mouth hung slightly open. “No? What point?”

“That Audrey doesn’t love Seymour for his success alone. Granted, Seymour wears spectacles and runs a floristry, so he’s _you_ , but...” Castiel tilted his head, “I see a comparison. You’re telling me you don’t love me because I’m rich.”

Dean screwed up his face. “What? Dude, no. It’s just a movie.”

Castiel’s smile fell.

Dean glanced from the TV to Castiel a few times, his face shrouded with mounting concern. After a moment, he said, “But I don’t, you know that, right? Hell, Cas―” he laughed under his breath, “when I met you, I was already gone on you, well before I knew you were loaded.”

He gave Castiel a reassuring shrug when Castiel looked at him carefully, observing the truth.

“If you wanna see symbolism, sure,” Dean muttered, looking at his lap and fiddling with the remote. “Maybe... me ‘n you could go in the same direction as Seymour and Audrey. Who knows.”

Castiel watched Dean for a while, hoping for even more. Dean was smiling quietly. Castiel wanted him to be thinking about marriage. Happy ever afters. Like the princesses always got.

Slowly, Castiel looked away, back to the screen. Dean wouldn’t squirm while he was aware of Castiel’s eyes on him, he was too embarrassed.

Castiel hummed a note of mild amusement, watching a salesman present a horrified-looking Seymour with a cutely packaged miniature of Audrey II. The salesman wanted leaf-cuttings of the big plant, and he wanted to ship them all over the country.

Those tiny plants were creepy as hell, hinged on world conquest. It was unnerving, if funny, on some level.

Then Dean fast-forwarded, and pressed play again right as the giant plant started singing. Again. It broke out of its pot, roots everywhere. Flailing, dancing roots. Its little buds sang harmony.

“This movie is―”

“Shh,” Dean snapped, frowning as he squirmed. “Just watch.”

Castiel couldn’t watch, he wanted to watch Dean. Oh, Dean was desperate, and he wasn’t hiding it well. His hand was on his cock, clutching it, legs apart, legs together, breath fast and tight. He bit on his lower lip, his nostrils flared.

All this movie was doing was distracting _Castiel_. Not Dean.

Meanwhile, the giant plant collapsed the flower shop over Seymour’s head, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Seymour was probably squashed under there.

Dean whimpered, bucking his hips. He looked fucking attractive like that, his svelte physique curving into his hand, back arching. His toes were curling on the carpet.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered. “Tell me how desperate you are.”

“Gotta pee so bad. Fuck. Fuck, I can’t hold it.”

Castiel licked his lips, picking up the remote and muting the volume on the movie. They could finish watching it some other time. Eyes on Dean, he let the remote go, not caring that it fell on the carpet and lost its batteries somewhere under the couch.

“Hold it,” Castiel said. “Two more minutes.”

Dean opened his mouth, sighing. “‘kay.” He licked his lips. “Two more minutes. Two more. Come on.”

Castiel raked in the writhing form of Dean, his tense shoulders, locked legs, both his hands tucked between his thighs. Seeing him like that, it made him excited again, he could feel the rise in his slacks. He touched himself, rough material under his palm, getting harder underneath. He pushed down forcefully, almost gasping as Dean yowled, head falling back, whole body tensing.

Castiel breathed hard, facing Dean completely, not touching him yet. “Are you hard?”

Dean nodded quickly. “Yeah. So hard. Oh god.”

Castiel edged closer, hips bucking an inch. “Does it feel good?”

Dean nodded again, lips shaking. “Yeah. Fuck, yes, feels so hot. Can’t wait. Can’t wait. Kiss me.”

Castiel leaned in, covering half of Dean’s body as he put their mouths together. Dean grunted, and his kiss was distracted and jerky, but he moaned. Castiel pulled away to look down, put a hand on Dean’s thigh, a silent instruction to part his legs to let Castiel see.

Castiel purred in delight as he saw Dean’s erection thwack up against his belly, its head red and shiny, its length as firm as a rock.

“God, I couldn’t even pee like this if I tried,” Dean laughed, some pain in his voice. “I gotta get off or I won’t be able to go.”

“So theoretically, you could hold on much longer.”

Dean looked at Castiel like he’d just sprouted singing plant buds himself. “You...” Dean huffed, “You’re gonna make me...?”

Castiel considered Dean, his agonised form, his flushed cheeks and shuddering breath.

“Hmm,” Castiel said, nudging a fingertip at Dean’s solid cockhead, as if thinking about how cruel he could really afford to be.

“Please,” Dean whispered, eyes half-open, eyelashes dainty as the light from above let shadows flicker on his cheeks. “Oh, fuck, Cas, please...”

Castiel smirked, meeting Dean’s eye with a dominating tilt of his head.

Dean gasped, squirmed all over again. “Make me come. Just... please.”

“You’ve made no move to do it yourself,” Castiel said, as a point of observation. “You want me to do it?”

Dean nodded, kept nodding. “Do it. Do it, make me. Need you.”

Castiel hummed again, his fingertips barely touching Dean’s cock as he dragged them down his length. Dean wailed, bucking his hips once, twice.

Castiel had an idea. He smiled, chuckling. “Stand up, Dean,” he said, cradling his jaw, leaning in to kiss him. Again he whispered, “Stand up.”

Dean stood, gasping, both hands going to hold his cock. His odd frown kept his eyebrows outward, a look of extreme torment in his eyes.

Castiel stood up too, rolling his shirt sleeves up some more, locking them above his bent elbows. Dean watched the movements, then his eyes shot to Castiel’s face, panting.

“I’m going to get something from my bedroom,” Castiel told him, clearly. “I’ll be back in thirty seconds. I want you to stand exactly where you are, and not move a single inch.” He looked down, memorising the patch of carpet Dean stood on, using the closest foot of the couch as a marker. He met Dean’s eye again. “If you move, you will be punished.”

Dean look positively gleeful.

Smiling, Castiel edged around the couch and headed for his bedroom. The dried flower crown on his door handle sounded crisp as his hand brushed it on the way past, and it swayed on the handle as he entered his darkened room. Moonlight poured through the skylight, and he used its silver-blue glow to locate the bottle of lube he kept in his bedside drawer.

He hoped Dean had moved.

He returned to the lounge, not looking up yet, waiting until he was close to the couch to peek at Dean.

He wasn’t anywhere near the couch. He was three feet away, his legs twined around each other, his hands on his dick, fisting it, his hands slick with pre-come. He looked at Castiel with a dare in his eyes. _Punish me_.

“Very well, I see how it is,” Castiel said, keeping his voice far calmer than the boiling sea of arousal that was tossing inside him. He sat in the middle of the couch, right on the divide between cushions. “Come here and bend over my knees, Dean.”

Dean hurried forward, his hands moving quickly and sharply on himself. Castiel could hear the wet sound of his skin, and he could smell the fluid as Dean came closer.

“Over my knees,” Castiel repeated. He sat out far enough that Dean had space to bend onto his hands and knees, the weight of his hips and his cock on Castiel’s legs. Castiel parted his legs an inch or so, so that Dean’s erection slid between them; he could feel its heat, a small amount of pre-ejaculate dampening his black trousers.

Dean was breathing excitedly, now resting on his flat hands and on the tips of his toes, his body an arch over Castiel’s legs.

Castiel stroked his back, fingers kept away from the bullet scar, instead sliding in the dip of his spine. “You’re... very naughty,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean grinned. He bit his lower lip, head ducking, relaxing. “God, yeah, I’m a bad boy, c’mon. C’mon, spank me.”

“Oh, you want it,” Castiel purred, hand cupping Dean’s buttocks, grasping their full muscle in his palms, squeezing white finger marks into each. His middle finger dipped into the crease, fingertip on Dean’s anus - and Dean moaned. “You want punishment?”

Dean nodded. “Uh-huh. I did it on purpose.”

“I know you did,” Castiel said, his left hand resting on the back of Dean’s shoulder blades, steadying him. “You’ve been thinking about it all night, haven’t you?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Didn’t want it the first time. Now I do. And Christ, would you hurry up, Cas? I really need to use the bathroom, I’m not kidding. I’m like a minute away from using the safeword.”

Castiel leaned down and kissed Dean’s shoulder. Dean barked, presumably as his bladder had been squashed between Castiel’s chest and his thighs.

“Cas... Please...?”

Castiel rolled Dean’s beautiful ass under his hand again. “Tell me what you did wrong.”

“You told me not to move and I moved.”

“Mm-hm.” Castiel spanked Dean once, hard. Dean sucked in a breath, legs convulsing, and Castiel felt a flow of absolute control rise in his blood. Castiel was so aroused that his erection was _hurting_ him. Dean’s erection was equally as firm; it throbbed between Castiel’s thighs.

Castiel stroked Dean’s ass, seeing a reddening mark appear at the very peak of his buttock. “Did you like that?”

“More.”

Castiel spanked him again, four times; left buttock, right buttock, left, right.

Dean cried out as Castiel stroked him calm, hands sliding up his spine, down to fondle his ass again. Dean’s breath was hard, forced; he whimpered, he reset his position on Castiel’s lap. He took more weight onto one hand, the other hand lifted to curl on Castiel’s thigh, elbow crooked almost poking Castiel’s side.

“Little bit more,” Dean whispered, hand squeezing Castiel’s leg. “Spank me.”

“This isn’t punishment if you enjoy it,” Castiel said.

Dean murmured a long note. “You’re doing fine - _ah!_ \- on the punishment front. Gotta pee so bad it’s killing me. But... fuck... every―” he panted, whimpering, “every time you spank me I feel like I’m gonna come. It’s so good. It’s so fucking good, Cas.”

Castiel let out a pleased sound, leaning down to kiss Dean’s back again. He straightened, and without warning, he smacked Dean’s ass - left, right, left, right, left, right. Dean screamed, his body contorting and bucking against Castiel’s legs, and Castiel laughed. “You want more, Dean?”

“Yes! Yes―”

Left, right, left, right, left, right―

“Oh god - Cas. Stop - stop―”

Castiel stopped, panting, suddenly scared he’d hurt Dean for real.

Dean shook his head, finding his breath. “Gotta go. Safeword. Biscuits. Biscuits, Cas.”

Castiel helped Dean stand up, holding him steady as he was shaking. “Are you okay?”

Dean nodded, gulping, panting, eyes dizzy and unfocused. “My ass feels great, burning like a fucking fire, but my bladder, not so much.”

Castiel took Dean’s hand, then leaned down and swiped up the bottle of lube from the couch. “Come on, quickly, then,” he said, pulling Dean down towards the bathroom. Dean walked uncomfortably, gasping and grunting, his eyes flicking to Castiel for reassurance every few seconds.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said, hand on Dean’s lower back to guide him into the black-tiled bathroom, switching the light on. “You’re all right.”

Dean made a tiny sound, begging. Castiel glanced down - Dean was still hard as anything, his erection pressed right up to his belly without any help at all. Castiel showed Dean some mercy, closing the door behind them and taking Dean’s cock in his hand.

Dean practically melted against him, whining and putting both hands on Castiel’s shoulders. They both watched together as Castiel’s fist slid up and down his cock - it was so _hard_ under Castiel’s hand. He played with the pre-come, letting it leave spiderwebs of liquid between his fingers, running warm down his thumb.

Castiel flicked open the bottle of lubrication and let go of Dean to pour a handful against Dean’s skin. It trickled and wound its way in syrupy lines down Dean’s front, and Dean frowned in confusion: with the amount of pre-come he was producing, he didn’t need anything else. Even so, Castiel closed the bottle and set it on the ledge by the sink, then returned his hand to Dean’s cock, rubbing the lube all around the surrounding area of skin.

Dean moaned. His skin became shiny and slick everywhere Castiel’s touched - the cold liquid became as hot as the rest of him, and Dean started thrusting into Castiel’s hand, his fingers tugging on Castiel’s hair for purchase.

“So desperate,” Dean breathed. “I’ve never been this desperate before― Oh god. Any time I needed to go when we were on the road, we’d pull over. On a job there were alleyways and bathrooms and - Cas, Cas, _auuuhh_...”

“That’s it, Dean. You can come. If you’re ready, just let it go.”

“More, need more.”

Castiel manhandled Dean and thumped him down on the closed toilet lid, holding the weight of his torso as he leaned him back, the two of them facing each other. Dean let Castiel take his weight without any kind of self-preservation left - if Castiel were to let go, he would hit his head on the tiled wall.

Castiel kept jerking Dean’s cock, short lube-slick pulls, his grip almost flying off the end at the peak of every stroke. Dean moaned and writhed like a monster in Castiel’s grip, eyes closed, face pinked as though he was burning up from the inside.

“So good,” Dean sobbed, grappling to hold Castiel’s neck, dangling from him. He was crying out basic animal sounds, growling and whining. He kept his legs open, and Castiel stood with one leg between them, the other leg bracing Dean steady.

Castiel did nothing for his own erection, but it was so utterly painful for him that he realised he needed to do something, perhaps before Dean was even sated. In a flash of selfish desperation, he grabbed at his shirt, hurriedly and clumsily undoing the buttons. He tore it off once the buttons were undone, flung the cloth to the ground, then began on his belt.

He watched Dean jack himself off, one hand holding the edge of the sink basin for balance, his legs parted, his reddened ass flat on the porcelain of the toilet.

Castiel kicked his trousers and boxers off, and, naked now, he stepped back to stand in front of Dean. Dean let go of the sink and held Castiel’s hip instead, and without any warning, he sank his mouth down around Castiel’s erection. Castiel almost blanked out in his pleasured surprise, his vision becoming full of hazy black tiles and green ivy that grew up the bamboo in the corner of the bathroom.

Dean made small sounds, hungry and nasal, tongue working to pull pre-ejaculate into his mouth. But then he moved off Castiel’s cock, crying out. “Cas! Cas, make me come, make me come, pleeease.”

Castiel dropped to his knees, hands holding Dean’s thighs apart. His hand pumped Dean’s cock hard, firmly, squashing him as much as he could, like he could force the orgasm out by suffocating Dean’s sex. It was so slippery, lube mixed with pre-come.

Dean’s wails echoed around the tiny, tiny bathroom, helpless and bordering on upset. “Ple-he-heeeaase...”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Castiel whispered. “Come for me, Dean. Come all over yourself, just go. Relax.”

“Can’t. Waited too long―”

“Bullshit. Come on. You’re close, I know you are.”

Dean just pulled Castiel’s hair harder, shining tears in his eyes as he looked down at him. His glasses were smudged with pre-come at the corner; Castiel wondered if he’d put that there by accident.

“You look good like that,” Castiel said, admiring the utter undoing that was rife on Dean’s face, the bloom of heat that was reddening his chest, the pressure making his legs shake. “You’re so good, desperate for me.”

Dean smiled, whimpering. “S- Say you love me...”

Castiel kissed his inner thigh, letting the hand on Dean’s cock pull slowly now, gently, his mouth offering the softest, most tender kisses. He held Dean’s eye, and he lifted his mouth. “I love you, Dean. I always will.”

Dean’s expression changed, he seemed to relax completely, jaw going slack, eyebrows folding outward, eyes half-closing as he kept them on Castiel. Castiel didn’t even watch the spurts of come that spilled from Dean, but he felt how hot his orgasm was, how wet and runny. Dean moaned slowly and eagerly, hips rolling but not bucking.

When he was finished, Castiel looked down, tilting his head as he smiled. Wet, white smears sank down Castiel's wrist, all over his hand, splashed on Dean’s abdomen, spreading on the lid of the toilet seat. “There,” Castiel said. “Well done, Dean.”

He lifted his hand away, put two fingers into his mouth and sucked. The tang was unmistakable - Dean’s semen was potent and wonderfully slippery. The taste of lube was present too, but Castiel knew it well enough to ignore it.

He returned his fingers to Dean’s body and swiped up some more, and with his eyes on Dean’s delirious gaze, he set those fingers on Dean’s lips. They went in messily, leaving a slop of wetness around his mouth, but Dean groaned as he sucked, his tongue flicking over Castiel’s fingers, mapping his fingertips. Dean’s eyes fell shut, and Castiel had to glance down, making sure he hadn’t relaxed too much. He was still a little bit hard, he had a few seconds.

Sliding his fingers free with a spit-slickened slip, Castiel stood up. His erection bobbed, and he touched it with his wet hand, pumping it once, twice, before Dean grunted and stood up, an inch in front of him.

“Gotta piss now,” Dean said, licking his lips, watching Castiel’s mouth. “Shower?”

Castiel shook his head. “Turn around.”

With his bare foot, he kicked up the toilet lid, and with his hands on Dean’s hips he stood him firmly in front of it. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, kissing his neck; his right hand snaked down between Dean’s legs, and he took Dean’s almost-soft cock in hand.

Dean murmured something without words, letting his head fall back against Castiel’s shoulder.

“Now, now, Dean,” Castiel scolded, rubbing his erection against Dean’s buttocks. “Watch what you’re doing.”

Dean gasped and looked down, and Castiel used the same moment to peer over Dean’s shoulder too, letting him see where he was aiming Dean.

“Are you ready?” Castiel asked, kissing Dean’s shoulder. “When you’re ready, let go. I’ll keep you steady.”

Dean held Castiel’s left hand, their fingers locked between each other. Dean’s breath came fast, and all at once it stopped, and Castiel realised why: the first trickle of urine escaped Dean’s slit, falling in a disconnected rope of droplets into the toilet. First it hit the water with a loud sloppy sound, then Dean’s flow heightened, and the aim became silent, landing easily upon the white porcelain at the back of the toilet.

Dean still wasn’t breathing, frozen as he watched.

Castiel didn’t hump at Dean, not wanting to disturb the careful aim. He held him, guided him, kissed his shoulder.

“How is it?” Castiel asked, at a whisper.

Dean licked his lips, turning his head slightly. “So... fucking good, I... can’t... It’s so good.”

“Relieving?”

Dean nodded. “Uh-huh. And you’re holding me, I like that.”

Castiel smiled, feeling his own cock leaking pre-come, loving the sight of Dean releasing under his grip. The flow was coming heavily now, consistently jetting into the toilet bowl with a hiss, a single stream of liquid. It was nearly colourless, and smelt of nothing, yet Castiel’s could still feel its heat, the heat of Dean.

Suddenly Dean chuckled, almost disrupting the flow. “You have a better aim than I do,” he muttered.

Castiel nibbled on his neck. “Some boys practice target-shooting with guns. Others...”

Dean laughed, and this time the flow jerked and broke up into wobbly droplets - miraculously, Castiel didn’t miss the toilet.

“God, I’m only half empty,” Dean muttered, adjusting his bare feet on the tiles. “How much did I drink?”

“I lost track. Five, six glasses?”

“Damn. I feel like a friggin’ firehose right now.”

It was Castiel’s turn to laugh, and Dean grasped his wrist at once, steadying him. “Whoa there, cowboy, almost lost the farm.”

Castiel smiled, nuzzling Dean’s shoulder with his chin. “I love having you like this. This isn’t even control, this is―”

“Part-ner-ship,” Dean said, in an old Western accent. “Howdy.”

Castiel laughed again, and Dean steadied him again. Then Dean moaned, head falling back, making Castiel the only one of them watching what they were doing.

“Tell me what this feels like,” Castiel said, thumbing at Dean’s left hand, fingers still locked together. “Every little feeling, tell me what it’s like.”

Dean sighed into the air. “Feels like I’m still coming. Jizzing. Feels so fucking good. Jesus Christ, I swear - if it didn’t take so long, I’d do this every day.” He tipped his head forward again, and watched along with Castiel as the flow began to weaken. Castiel adjusted his aim, making sure it wouldn’t ease too close to their bodies.

“Mmmm,” Dean sighed, relaxing some more as he finished.

“Last few drops,” Castiel whispered. “Come on. Squeeze it out.”

Dean grinned, panting. Castiel felt Dean’s abdomen pressing into itself, and he managed last set of splashy spurts.

“There we go,” Castiel said, shaking Dean’s cock of the last drip. “Was that good?”

“Yeah. Good boy, Cas.” Dean chuckled up at the ceiling, sighing again. “Fucking _hell_ , you are _such_ a good boy.”

Castiel felt very warm inside. Those words from Dean were a caress all on their own.

Feeling like he ought to have the last word, or the last touch, Castiel ducked his head and peered over Dean’s shoulder again, watching his thumb near Dean’s slit. He pressed it in, rubbed him―

Dean yelped, grabbed Castiel’s wrist harder, grabbed his other hand harder. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit―”

Castiel grinned in satisfaction, feeling that wetness under his thumb, lube and pre-come and piss all mixed together, helping him torture Dean with one last pleasure.

Dean clawed at Castiel’s wrist now, wailing, his knees buckling. Castiel let go of his cock, chuckling as he adjusted his own weight to cater for Dean’s overall floppiness.

“C-Cas... oh... _aouhhhhh_...”

Castiel turned Dean around, took him by the waist and leaned in to kiss him on the lips. Their middles slipped on the leftover lube, and Castiel’s erection pushed to the side as they wrapped their arms around each other.

Murmuring into Dean’s mouth, Castiel managed to say, “That was wonderful.” He kept kissing, words shaped against their lips. “Did you like that, Dean?”

Dean nodded, a hummed “Mm-hmm,” pressed between Castiel’s soft, warm breaths.

“Good.” Castiel kissed some more. “What did you like best?”

Dean rumbled a purr, mouth surging into Castiel’s; his words came out muffled and almost garbled as he said, “You sayin’ you love me.”

Castiel put so much heart into his kiss that it made him feel like he was sinking into the ground; he wanted to rest with Dean and tell him a hundred times over how much he made him feel, how intense the love Castiel kept for him alone was.

He waited until Dean seemed calmer and kissed more slowly, before he broke their kiss, something more serious than pleasure on his mind. “Dean...?”

“Uh-huh?” Dean smiled hazily as he blinked at Castiel. “What’s up, cowboy?”

Castiel smirked. “Um. I want you to know. If you’re uncomfortable with this - any of this, anything, then you have to tell me. Understand?”

Dean pulled back, wearing a small frown. “You know I pretty much asked you to do some of this stuff, right?”

Castiel parted his lips, turning his head to the side. “Maybe you’re comfortable now. But if that ever changes, if you ever don’t want to do something, please let me know. And don’t wait until afterwards.” He leaned in and kissed Dean again, breathing out as their mouths settled together. He nibbled away, and licked spittle from his lips as he added, “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Dean shook his head, then nodded. With his hand on Castiel’s chin, he turned his face up to meet his eye. “It’s good. It’s _all_ good. I―” He smiled, tilting his head. “I like that I can trust you like this. It’s good for _me_ , being _able_ to trust you like this. And, the same goes for you, in any case. I get the feeling we’re gonna have a crazy time in bed in the future, so...” He shrugged. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

Castiel nodded, sinking into another kiss. His wet hands remained on Dean’s hips, and Dean’s hands stayed on Castiel’s face, around the back of his neck.

Castiel swallowed as he pulled away. “Dean, I’m really very hard.”

Dean grinned and looked down. “Well, would ya look at that. So you are.”

“And I need to pee as well.”

Dean met his gaze, one eyebrow quirked. “I think the shower might be the best place for that, don’t you?”

Castiel smiled slowly, putting together what Dean had in mind. “That sounds delightfully dirty.”

“You know me,” Dean murmured, smooching Castiel once more as he pulled him towards the open shower, “I like dirty. And I like wet.”

“How about some messy to go with that?”

Dean pushed Castiel up against the back wall of the shower, hand cupped behind his head so he wouldn’t bump it on the tiles. “That, Cas,” he said, “is my kind of party.”

✿

Once Dean had changed clothes and had borrowed a little bit of everything from Castiel’s bathroom cabinets (his shaving cream, his razor, an incredibly stingy apricot facial scrub that Castiel informed Dean he should have used _before_ shaving, two types of cologne, hair gel, no hair gel, hair gel again, hair gel done _better_ ), he eventually found his way to the hallway.

He held back a yawn, rubbing at his eyes.

“Almost four in the morning,” he muttered, squinting at the clock in the lounge. He set his glasses straighter on his nose, blinking hard and attempting to ignore the blurriness in his eyes. “Boy, am I gonna be zoning out today.”

“I might not be able to see you tomorrow - or later today, I mean,” Castiel said, rubbing at his own eyes as he helped Dean shoulder his duffel bag. “I’m rather overwhelmed at work.”

Dean hummed. “Yeah, about that. How’s Daphne?”

Castiel glanced away. “Sh- She’s fine.”

“Have talked to her at _all_?”

Dean saw it in Castiel’s frown: he didn’t want to be the one to have to deal with this. “I haven’t talked to her outside of work things, the business has taken precedence. And besides that, she and I haven’t yet told my _father_ that Daphne’s taken over Divine Power. He might even find out via some news broadcast, which would not please him. At all.”

“Tell him today.”

Castiel nodded. “That’s what we’re planning on doing. It’s... going to be a long day.”

“You’d better get to sleep then.” Dean leaned forward and kissed Castiel’s cheek. “I’ll see you Friday?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. And we can sleep in on Saturday.”

Dean grinned, pulling Castiel in for a hug. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Dean gave a throaty purr and put a final lingering kiss on Castiel’s lips. He was smiling, simmering with warmth inside as he pulled away. “Have good day at work. Honey.”

Castiel’s eyes squinted in disdain, but Dean laughed and those wrinkles around Castiel’s eyes disappeared.

“I’m kidding,” Dean said, petting the side of Castiel’s face, backing away towards the front door. “Honeybee.”

Castiel smiled. “Much better.”

Dean winked, letting himself out into the hallway, where the glow of the city touched his side, the black of night absolute everywhere else. No lights in the hall were on, but Dean guessed they would be in on the elevator. He took a breath in, stepping backwards again.

Castiel leaned on the post of his front door, a wonky smile on his face as he watched Dean retreating, very slowly, longing to stay.

“Go on, Dean, or you’ll be late for your flower market.”

“Mm.” Dean poked the button for the elevator. “Maybe I’ll get something for you.”

Castiel rested his head on the door frame, still smiling. Like velvet, he softly called to Dean, “I love you.”

Dean’s smile broke into a tender grin as the elevator doors opened behind him. “I love you too, Cas.” He backed into the lift car, golden light pouring over his face and shoulders from above. He pressed the button for the first floor, waved, and just caught sight of Castiel’s return wave as the doors closed between them.

Alone in the cabin, he closed his eyes and screwed up his face, beaming at the ceiling in total, _total_ euphoria. He could only imagine what being with Castiel every day would be like. He could feel like this _every day_.

It didn’t wane, it didn’t wilt. Everything he felt for Castiel, it only got more intense each time they laid eyes on each other. The flower of this budding passion, to Dean, felt as if it was only newly blooming. There were even brighter times to come, he was sure of it.


	24. Open Your Heart, Not Just Your Mouth

Castiel got home at almost ten o’clock that night, exhausted, feeling like his body was drooping from his bones. He’d been running on post-sex fuel, coffee, and two hours of sleep - which made for productive bouts of mental and physical activity, but certainly did nothing for his overall esteem.

Fighting to keep his eyes open, he rummaged in the fridge and pulled out the last of the leftover gumbo, then microwaved it, hoping it would still taste good. As he waited for the microwave to fulfill its functions, Castiel dragged himself to the voicemail machine, kicking his socks off as he went.

The light was flashing on the black box, so he knew he had messages. He poked the button, and the machine’s robotic feminine voice began to read out timestamps, which he barely registered in his blurry mental state.

But when Dean’s voice entered his awareness, all fuzziness evaporated, and he listened intently.

“ _―Yeah, uh... sorry to leave a message, I guess you’re not home yet. Just... saying hi. Hope you have something for dinner. Hey, if― If you’re back before about eight, call me? Okay. That’s all._ ” Dean paused, and the message crackled somewhat. Then, in a hasty whisper, Dean added, “ _I’m wearing white lace. Thought of you. Oh- okay, that’s it, I’m gonna―_ ”

The message beeped to signal its end, and Castiel smiled behind his hand, quickly turning to retrieve his food from the microwave. The voicemail began to recite another timestamp, and Castiel opened the microwave as quietly as possible so he could hear the next message.

“ _Umm. It’s eight, so I’m heading to bed. Sorry we missed each other today. Ships in the night, I guess. Heh. I made you a― Crap, I’m such a girl. I made you a bouquet. Um, r- roses and... stuff. Yeah, it’s stupid, whatever. I’m gonna hang up now. See you tomorrow. Bye._ ”

Castiel sat down on the barstool closest to the voicemail machine, and he started eating his gumbo with a peice of bread. Aside from the warmth he felt at the thought of being given roses, he was pleased the machine’s light was still flashing, and that his food was the perfect temperature for consumption.

Another timestamp, another message began.

“ _Frickin’― I can’t stay away. Sorry, man. The, uh, the kittens were extra cute today. I took some photos, they totally look like baby photos. Put ‘em in an album somewhere - like, one of those leather-bound ones people have in their houses, when their kids were growing up? Yeah. I - I never really thought about that stuff before. But it’s nice, right? Having..._ ” Dean breathed softly, a click of sound like he gulped. “ _Having... babies..._ ” He paused again, and then cleared his throat. “ _Shit. Uh - bye._ ”

Castiel chewed his food slowly, digesting Dean’s words as he chewed. He smiled, because when Dean got flustered, it was positively the most adorable thing Castiel could imagine. Cuter than kittens.

Another beep, another timestamp.

“ _Crap, I’m gonna fill up your voicemail. You should block me or somethin’._ ”

Castiel grinned. Dean hadn’t specifically told Castiel that he was missing him, but if these messages were anything to go by, it didn’t need saying.

“ _Tried learning some French today. I’m pretty fucking awful, but I wrote something for you and ran it through an online translator. I’m only doin’ this over the phone ‘cause I’m too chicken to do this to your face. This way you can’t laugh at me. Uh. Okay, here goes. V- Vous... changer qui je suis. Tu me fais mieux - vous me rendre plus fort. J'aime chaque bonne chose à propos de vous, j'aime_ toutes _les mauvaises choses aussi. J'espère... que vous vous sentez la même chose._ ”

Castiel translated, mouthing the words as Dean read them out. _You change who I am, you make me better, you make me stronger. I love everything good about you, I love every bad thing too. I hope you feel the same._

Castiel set his face in his hands, laughing, on the verge of tears, emotion that sprang from somewhere deep inside him, close to his heart. He’d never felt so cherished, so well praised, and never with such terrible, misplaced words.

Another beep came, signalling the beginning of the fifth message, and Castiel gathered himself up to listen.

“ _Saw something on the news today. Said Daphne got the new CEO job officially. Actually - this is pretty awful, but - heh-heh - I had a thought: I’m glad she didn’t have to sleep her way to the top. Y’know. Because that would mean she... uh - slept with you. Hah, sorry. I’ll shut up now. Your dad looks pretty healthy on TV. Guess it’s just an act. Send him my blessing or something, whenever you see him next. Maybe come get flowers, I wanna make something for him._ ”

Beeeep.

“ _Hey again. Ugh, I’m so frickin’ tired right now. It’s nice talking, though. Kinda one-sided, but whatever. You’re gonna hate the sound of my voice by the time I finally quit sending you this junk. Not that I actually have anything important to say, or anyth― Oh! I booked another flower service for a wedding today._ ” Dean cleared his throat. “ _They told me they found an ad in a magazine someplace. I asked Benny, he said he didn’t put on in._ I _certainly didn’t. So. Youuuu... wouldn’t happen to know anything ab―_ ”

The message beeped and ended, and Castiel waited for the next one, spooning up the remains of the gumbo left at the bottom of his bowl.

“ _Sorry, it cut off. But yeah. You’re a sneaky bastard, Cas._ ” Castiel smiled as he heard Dean’s quiet, sleepy laugh. “ _You weren’t gonna tell me, were you? I know you weren’t._ ” Dean hummed, tuneless. “ _Sometimes I... kinda like how you lie. And don’t tell me stuff. Other times it makes me -_ so _mad. So -_ fucking _\- mad. Like, I wish you were some - weedy teacher’s pet instead, but you’re not._ ” Dean sighed, and Castiel sighed with him.

Dean gave his final words, his voice quiet, “ _I’d still feel stuff for you, though. Even if you tear my fuckin’ heart out._ ”

The message ended, and Castiel waited for another.

But there wasn’t another.

Castiel rubbed his thumb over his tingling lips, trying to soothe the burn that the Tabasco sauce left there. He felt a twitch in his smile; almost a sad smile, almost a happy one.

Shaking his head, Castiel left his bowl on the kitchen bar and sloped off towards the bathroom, intent on getting ready for bed.

Maybe ten minutes later, he was about to push open his bedroom door and fall between the sheets, but the phone rang.

He turned and looked towards the voicemail machine, then at the ringing phone. He wanted to answer, he wanted to talk to Dean. But he also wanted to hear a last message, Dean spilling his feelings without outside input.

Castiel folded his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits, staring at the voicemail light as it began recording.

“ _God..._ ” came Dean’s voice, dripping with fatigue, crackly and muffled like he was lying down. “ _Please... Don’t hurt me. Don’t..._ ” Dean sniffed. “ _Don’t break my heart. Please. I couldn’t take it. Don’t let me down. You fuck around with me but I feel like it might end bad someday, and I... I don’t want that to happen._ ”

Castiel cupped his face in his hands, forcing his eyes closed, feeling his own frown. He felt too much.

“ _I never loved anyone like this. It_ hurts _, Cas, not knowing if I can have everything you say we could have. If you ever want this to end, ever want it to stop... Don’t make it hurt. Don’t lead me on and then cut me out of your life like before. I am_ never _getting over you. Please, I am_ begging _you... don’t break my h―_ ”

The machine beeped, running out of time for Dean’s message.

Castiel peeked out from between his hands, watching the machine’s light show up with the new message. He had no intention of listening to it ever again.

He wished he could promise Dean all that he wanted. Castiel wanted it too, so dearly. But his life, his path, it was not absolute. It was meant to be obvious: he was supposed to marry Daphne, supposed to bear a child - but the time for childbearing was gone; Castiel’s father wouldn’t live to see a grandchild, that much was certain. The engagement to Daphne was still lingering for a sole reason: Castiel had not yet found the courage to confront Daphne or his father. He was a coward, and in being so scared of making his own decisions, he was breaking Dean apart.

Castiel was a selfish, spoiled little brat. Standing alone in his apartment, surrounded by his flowers with their buds closed for the night, he took hold of the idea that maybe he wasn’t _capable_ of changing who he was. Maybe bravery and self-dependence were something he got from other people. From Dean. And that... yes, that was ironic. Ironic and hurtful.

He went to bed, angry with himself.

He slept alone, and felt like he deserved it.

✿

Dean didn’t bother with candles for the shop on Friday evening. Benny had complained about the romantic atmosphere one too many times, so Dean gave in and simply flipped the light switch, letting the front desk and the surrounding area become lit with a basic yellow light. His body cast shadows straight down as he meandered back to the desk, hand open to accept the food Benny brought.

Benny stared at his hand. “I ain’t a soup kitchen, brother.”

“You were meant to bring dinner,” Dean snarled, sitting heavily on his stool, sinking both cheeks onto his fists like a petulant child.

Benny flipped his phone open. “Yeah, and you were meant to shut off your satellite connection. Gabriel mentioned you were watching the home improvement channel, which as far as I know, is only available on satellite.”

Dean rubbed a guilty finger on the desk, watching Benny sending a text. The mention of the home improvement channel alone had sent a bolt of colour through his chest, and he felt like the world lit up a bit more, the flowers around him brighter than before.

Dean wanted a double bed, maybe a four-poster. He wanted furniture that wasn’t from IKEA, he wanted bookshelves and decorative rugs, pillow throws, and thermal curtains to keep away the mould. He wanted to sit for hours and match paint samples, and he wanted to get dizzy off the fumes of redecoration, arms around him as he flicked paint at Cas.

He kept on dreaming, and with every dream, he fell more in love. Castiel was offering him everything he never knew he wanted, and oh, _oh_ , how very dearly he wanted it.

“Dean - Dean! You all right there? Jeez, look at you, you look like someone tipped plant food your coffee.”

Dean blinked a few times, focusing back on Benny’s staring face. “I’m fine. Sorry. Sorry about the satellite. I’ll pay for it. But I am _not_ having some repairman come plug the things in, I’m doing it myself.”

Benny narrowed his eyes, and Dean glanced away, not enjoying the scrutiny.

Benny sighed, and Dean looked back at him to ask, “What’s up?”

Flicking his thumb at his phone, Benny shrugged. “Madeline. She’s mad at me, and hell, she takes after her mother that way. Apparently I either invade her privacy or I’m not around when she needs me.”

“Well, you _do_ work, like, twenty-four-seven,” Dean reasoned. “And when you’re there, you’re still sheriffing. Keeping her safe and whatnot.”

Benny nodded, shutting his eyes and rubbing his face. “I was never meant to be a single daddy. I’m terrible at this job, goddamn it. I can do the parental thing, but not when it’s about... _girl_ things.”

“What, like... crushing on boys?”

“Naw, about ‘that time of the month’,” Benny said, pulling an incredibly uncomfortable expression. “She don’t want me talkin’ to her.”

Dean rubbed his mouth, halfway between smiling and offering an empathetic grimace. “I got nothing.”

Benny set down the phone on the desk. “I’m just hoping this is one of those nights when she’s happy to interrupt me at work. She don’t usually. But her babysitter skipped out, she’s home alone.”

The phone vibrated on the desk, turning itself around, and Benny practically inhaled his tongue, hand shooting to pick it up. Dean waved a hand, giving permission for Benny to stand up and talk.

At the moment Benny turned for the back of the shop, the bell chimed at the front. Dean looked over, and he fluttered with panic as he saw Daphne enter, her nervous eyes turning towards him.

“Daphne,” Dean said, more as an ‘oh my god it’s Daphne what the hell am I going to do’ rather than as a greeting.

Daphne smiled quickly, stepping closer, tugging on her suit to straighten it after walking. “Hello. How are you?”

Dean opened and shut his mouth, glancing over to Benny, who was distracted by an algebra question, “Wait, _X_ equals how many? Dammit, I need to write this down.”

“I’m fine,” Dean managed, eyes shooting back to Daphne as she took Benny’s seat, sitting to face Dean on the other side of the desk. The lights from above made her hair strands become yellow at the sides, and her nose and cheekbones were the highlights of her face. “H- How are you?”

“I’ve had a long day,” Daphne said - truthfully, if her tired eyes and weary smile were anything to go by. “I didn’t see Emanuel today.”

“Was he not at work?” Dean’s mind began to race. Was he sick? Did he die? Did somebody kill him, track him down, hear all the messages Dean left for him, realising he was the best person to hurt if they wanted to hurt Dean? Was he gone forever, would Dean never see him again―?

“Oh, he was there,” Daphne said, and Dean let out a fast sigh of relief. “Every time I got anywhere near him he would―” She laughed, frowning, setting a hand against one eye in mild scorn. “He’d run in the other direction, _hiding_ from me. It’s not subtle.” She looked Dean in the eye, sadness clear on her face. “I don’t know what to do any more. I thought he was so mature, maybe he would be good for me, but he’s done nothing but avoid me for more than a week.”

Dean ducked his head, and accidentally found himself examining Daphne’s manicure; she hadn’t gotten it re-done recently, the gloss was chipped and her hands sported a few papercuts. “I’m sorry he’s being an ass to you,” Dean said, looking up to watch Daphne’s unmoving face. “I thought he’d man up already. Hearing this...” Dean scoffed something that was far from a laugh, but sounded like one. “Not gonna lie, it’s disappointing.” He looked down again, licking his lips.

In the background he heard, “No - no, _carry_ the three, Maddie. Aw, hell. How many more of these have you got to do?”

Daphne’s shoulders rose then fell low as she heaved a sigh. She smiled at Benny’s voice over her shoulder, then returned her attention to Dean. “I’m sure I ought to know this already, but... do you know _why_ he’s going out of his way to avoid me? Unless it’s not only me, he’s avoiding you too?”

Dean shook his head. “He’s not avoiding me. In fact he’s―” He grimaced and looked away.

If he told Daphne what the two of them were up to, he’d be doing Cas’ dirty work. This was Castiel’s problem, and sure, Dean was part of it - this was half his fault, after all - but _Cas_ made the decision to cheat on _his_ fiancée, so it was up to him to sort his own shit out.

“He’s still friends with you,” Daphne gathered.

Dean tipped his head to the side, semi-accepting. “Yeah.” He bit his lower lip, nibbling it as he tried to work out whether or not Castiel _ever_ intended to break up with Daphne.

Dean exhaled, a rush of painful thoughts all flooding him at once. Holding back the immediate tears, he slumped over the desk, a hand sliding through his hair, staring balefully at the roses at the side of the shop.

“What, what is it?” Daphne asked, upon hearing Dean’s breathless complaint.

Dean flicked his eyes to Daphne’s, worry and upset carving nasty shapes on his insides. “Me... Me and Cas. We’re...” Dean scrubbed his head with both hands, then blasted out a breath. “We’re sleeping together. We have been ever since that night after the theatre. Actually - dammit - before then.” With his jaw set, Dean looked away, not enjoying the cold mask of shock Daphne now wore. “We had sex before then. Kissed before then. Weeks and weeks ago.”

“He... He never told me,” Daphne said, her voice tiny.

Benny had stopped talking, and Dean glanced past Daphne to see Benny holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, his eyes on Dean and Daphne, listening to them.

“He was meant to tell you,” Dean said, swallowing. He felt horrible, horrible for what they’d done, guilty for what they were doing, cruel for what he was now telling Daphne. “He was meant to talk to you and his old man, tell you both that... me and him... we’re... in love.” Dean sucked on his tongue, repressing the joy that came from saying those words aloud. Hearing them from Daphne’s perspective, they sounded like a horror story.

“I’m sorry,” Dean added, quietly, unable to lift his eyes from the desk. “I don’t know how much he already said to you. He’s got this habit of... saying things that aren’t always true, and holding things back he ought to be telling straight off the bat.”

“No,” Daphne whispered, shifting on her stool a bit. “No, it’s okay, he did tell me. He said how he... felt, about you. He never told me you had that sort of relationship, though. I thought you were seeing Sarah―” Daphne looked up sharply, mouth open. “Wait, you’re seeing Sarah―!”

“No, I’m not,” Dean assured her, a hand reaching closer to her. “Sarah’s my brother’s wife, she let me borrow her for that night we went out. Cas told you I wasn’t single, but I was. Well - heh, I wasn’t, really, because I was seeing _him_. Technically, I mean.” Dean frowned, gnawing on the inner part his lip as he pressed it to his teeth. “It’s complicated.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows, something hinging on hysterical in her eye, but it faded quickly. “Yes. Yes, I see that.”

“But―” Dean screwed up his face, meeting Benny’s eye for reassurance, then returning his focus to Daphne, taking a breath to reveal something else. “But look, it’s... It might be more complicated than I even thought. Cas... He didn’t tell you, he never made any move to break up with you. I’m starting to think... maybe he doesn’t... _want_... to.”

It cut Dean to his core, like a hot knife through his flesh, like a syringe injecting ice into the wound, acid devouring every emotion he was capable of until he was left with nothing but a forced neutral expression. “Maybe he still wants to marry you. Maybe he loves you. Maybe he... w-wants to marry you, b- because... he loves... you.”

Dean had never struggled to say anything so much in his life.

He couldn’t even find it in him to be jealous. Castiel had insinuated a few times - or at least not denied - that he loved Daphne. At the start he’d straight-up said he didn’t. But that had changed. Now, it seemed entirely possible he actually _wanted_ to take this road in life. He wanted to marry a smart, rich woman, like any other normal white middle-aged bachelor with a good few million in his inheritance.

Dean’s mind had escaped its current location enough that when Daphne set her soft, careful hand on top of Dean’s, he jumped.

“Hey,” Daphne smiled. “It’s okay.”

Dean gaped at her, letting her pet him. “What, what’s okay?”

Daphne shook her head, her free hand moving to tuck her short wavy hair behind her ear. She squeezed Dean’s wrist. “If he was in love with me, do you really think he’d spend days on end purposefully _not_ being in my presence?”

“Sam gives me the silent treatment sometimes, and he still likes me,” Dean muttered.

Daphne shook her head. “He was clear with me, he always was. He wanted to marry me because marrying me would help _me_ take over the company. Divine Power. I took over by force this week. It was nothing short of mutiny, if I’m honest, and his father... he’s...” Daphne shrugged, eyes turning away, then back to Dean. “He’s okay with it. Sort of.”

“Saw the old man on TV,” Dean said. He looked over at Benny, who was paying attention to both his phone and Dean at once. “Saw Benny got his fifteen minutes of fame, and you as well.” He smiled at Daphne, small and unfulfilling. “This whole thing’s pretty crazy, huh.”

Daphne squeezed his wrist again, nodding as she pulled her hand back. “Castiel, Emanuel - he tried very hard not to tell me what you just told me. He’s seen me when I’m angry, I―” She laughed, looking out of the window at the night-shadowed street behind Dean. “I think he was scared I’d get angry at him.”

“You should be angry,” Dean complained. “C’mon, Daphne, your almost-husband cheated on you with another _dude_ , you gotta feel something against that. Hate me, okay? Feel free to. I watch enough TV to know women who get cheated on are liable to blow things up, so you do that. Have at me.” Dean held his arms out, welcoming a punch to the face it ever came. “I fucked your fiancé behind your back, and I knew full well he was yours.”

Daphne smiled softly. “Hon, he wasn’t ever mine. He and I were nothing but convenient. His father―”

“Is a manipulative bastard, and Cas doesn’t owe him shit!”

Daphne sighed, shaking her head. “Emanuel thinks he does. He told me something. He told me his father was very protective of him after his mother died, insofar that Emanuel felt he had to escape him, because the man was smothering him. But once Emanuel met the world, he found something out there that hurt him. He never said what it was, but,” Daphne made a small, shaky, slightly afraid expression, “it scared him, and he said it changed his life for the worse. Irreversibly.”

Dean nodded, glimpsing the shift of Benny’s feet. They both understood what Daphne referred to: that fear, that change - that was what HIV did to people.

“And he went back to his father,” Daphne went on. “Emanuel believes that his father, no matter how entirely he crushes his hopes and dreams, does so for a good reason. He thinks marrying me is the only way he can stay safe. Because he’s made that mistake before.”

Dean nodded, setting his face under his hands, closing his eyes. He got it now. He had all the paragraphs of the profile, he now knew why Castiel behaved the way he did. Knowing _why_ didn’t make it okay, though.

It wouldn’t be an instant fix. They’d work on it.

God, Dean thought. They’d work on it together, for all their lives, if Dean ever got that chance.

“He loves you, Dean,” Daphne said, finality in her tone. “But he won’t let himself have you, because he still believes his father knows best. Emanuel doing what _he_ wants is something he’s sure will end in disaster.”

“It will,” Dean whispered, terror on his breath. “It _will_ end in disaster.” He turned his eyes to the lights in the ceiling, eyes welling with tears before the brightness even affected him. “I’m going to die someday, and it’s not gonna be pretty. Cas, no matter what he feels about me - he’s going to hurt when I’m gone. Even worse,” Dean looked at Benny, who was tucking his phone back into his belt, his call finished, “I’ll end up bringing Cas down with me. There are people out there who want to hurt me, and one day... they’re gonna get what they want.”

Benny stepped forward. “You know I won’t let that happen, brother.”

Dean shook his head, smiling a thin line. “You won’t be able to stop everything, Benny. No offence, but you’re not a barricade, you’re a fly screen. You’re good, but people get through your checks pretty easy. They see my face and my cover’s blown again. And there’s no _way_ I’m signing up for plastic surgery.”

Benny walked around the desk, getting close enough to rest his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean smelled the metal of the gun on his belt, and the dusty, sweaty, leathery scent of Benny as a whole. Dean sighed, relaxing fractionally under Benny’s reassuring grip.

Looking across at Daphne, Dean tried to smile, but failed.

Daphne didn’t understand, Dean could see she didn’t, but she smiled back in any case. “I don’t mind what you do with Emanuel, Dean,” she said. “If he wants something with you, I’m not against it. I’m annoyed he didn’t say a word to me while he went behind my back, but I’m too tired by everything else to really care. I’m at the point in life where I just _expect_ people to let me down.”

“I hear ya there, lady,” Benny called amen, muttering from above Dean. Dean snorted.

Daphne turned her eyes up to Benny, and smiled again. “Sheriff Lafitte,” she said, warmly. “I’m Daphne Allen.” She paused. “Hm. The television coverage doesn’t quite do you justice.”

Benny juddered a little, Dean felt his hand shift. “Uhh. Thank... you. I went to the barbers this mornin’, it’s probably that.”

Daphne grinned lopsidedly: a curve rose slowly on her red lips, then shone on her face. “I meant your personality. Your sense of loyalty and all of that. On the news section on Divine Power this morning you came across as, ah,” Daphne fiddled her fingers around the end of her hair, “fairly uncouth.”

Benny stayed silent, but Dean could _hear_ the dropped jaw.

“You seem far more friendly in reality,” Daphne said, tilting her head with a twinkle in her eye. “Trustworthy, I think. And fatherly.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. I heard― Well, I heard nothing but confused complaints, but you sure are lovelier than the housebrick a couple of _unnamed_ bastards made you out to be. Your daughter’s gotta love having you around. I know... mine would.”

Well, thought Dean, a lot of problems just got solved. Going by the flattered look on Daphne’s face, and the startlingly tight grip Benny was putting on Dean’s shoulder, good things were headed both of their ways. Namely, each other.

Cupid’s Bow really was a perfect place to start falling in love.

“All right, awesome,” Dean grunted, extricating himself from under Benny’s strong hand, inching off his stool, shooting Daphne a grin as he picked up the duffel bag from the corner of the shop. “Me, myself and I have places to be, so if nobody’s sticking around for dinner, I’m outta here.” He gestured towards the door with an arm. “You too. This shop’s seen enough twitterpation for a lifetime.”

Daphne fussed as she stood up, smiling as she petted down her suit again, then ran her fingers back through her hair. Benny straightened his cap, cleared his throat, checked his fly was done up, then sauntered towards the door, a bewildered expression resting over his smile.

Dean put his jacket on and held the door open for both of them, trying not to smirk at the way they almost bumped into each other in the doorway in their attempt to meet each other’s eyes, Benny offering Daphne the exit. _Ladies first._

“Oh,” Daphne said, turning around to locate Dean as soon as he’d turned the lights off and stepped into the dark street, keys in hand. “Are you... going to see Castiel?”

Dean licked his lips guiltily. “Uh. Yeah.” He locked the shop’s door, eyeing the ‘Closed’ sign, watching the lights inside gradually fade to nothing and drown the shop in gloom.

Daphne petted Dean’s back, and Dean spun to look at her. She gazed at him with a warm smile, something a bit like relief showing in her expression. “Look after him, won’t you,” she said. “He’s not the strongest of people.”

Dean smiled. “I think maybe you two aren't meant to be for a reason. Beside my brother Sam and Benny,” Dean pointed at the loitering sheriff, “Cas is the most resilient dude I know.”

Daphne smiled, then took in a breath and looked towards Benny. Benny fumbled and didn’t say anything, so Daphne turned back to Dean. “I’m glad you see that in him.”

Dean didn’t know whether she was talking about Cas or Benny any more. “Sure,” he said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I should add, that manly resilience comes second only to Sarah’s. You and her should have a great dessert-tasting next week, she’s pretty excited about that.”

“Oh, thank you, Dean.”

“Um,” Benny said. Daphne turned to look at him. “If you’re... not rushing off someplace, ma’am, I’d sure be happy to walk you home.”

“My place is just around the corner,” Daphne said, tucking her hair behind her ears. The moonlight did not glint off anything on her hand, and that was the moment Dean noticed that her engagement ring had been removed. He smiled.

Benny offered Daphne a crooked arm for her to take hold of.

Grinning, shaking his head as he turned away, Dean started off down the slope to the main road.

“Dean!” Daphne’s voice called.

Dean turned, still grinning as Benny raised a hand in farewell. Daphne waved more energetically. “Tell Emanuel I said hello,” she called, with a huge smile on her face. “And if there’s anything left in that gift basket I gave him, tell him he has my utmost blessings if he wants to share it with you.”

Dean nodded, standing still to watch Benny and Daphne start up the lane again, small laughs carrying on the summer breeze. Dean could feel and see something kindle between them, their eyes set completely on each other.

If that was how Dean looked at Cas, then maybe it was time to turn it down a notch. Wow, it was puke-worthy. But still nice to look at. Dean couldn’t wipe the smug little smirk off his face, still watching his best friend and Castiel’s probably-maybe-ex-fiancée walk off into the city-glowing night.

✿

Castiel got home a short while before eight in the evening, and the sun seemed to have set longer ago than he thought it had. His apartment had become bare and empty under the moonlight, and the first thing he did after kicking his shoes off was to go around the lounge, pulling the curtains shut.

Sometimes on rainy days, he preferred not to let any light in at all, since grey light was gloomier than darkness - and this felt much the same. Shutting out the night and surrounding himself with a darkened apartment, he breathed a sigh of relief. Cut out of the world, at last.

He wandered to the bathroom by navigation of the tiny lights around the room: slats of city twinkles cast lines down the back walls through gaps in the curtains, a glow here and there came from the power light on the TV, and the clock on the microwave. He successfully avoided bumping into anything, and washed up in the peace and quiet of his tiny bathroom alcove.

He shed most of his clothes between the bathroom and the lounge, left wearing his work slacks and white untucked shirt, loose and saggy. His fingers brushed purposefully against the huge vase of tiger lilies on the table in the centre of his hallway crossroads. Pollen on his fingers, he smiled.

Someone knocked at the door.

Castiel paused, one foot almost taking his weight mid-step. He swivelled, turning to face down the hallway. He could see light coming from under it, and he could see the shadows of two sturdy legs.

That wasn’t Dean - he’d know Dean right away, because Dean knocked _tat-tattat-tat-tat_.

This knock came again. _Tat-tat, tat-tat_.

Then they pressed the doorbell.

Castiel rarely got visitors. Nobody _knew_ him, nobody came to see him. And if they did come, they told him they were coming beforehand. This was probably cause for alarm.

He wound his hands together before himself, tapping his thumbs together nervously. He’d had enough of people today, it had taken him hours to escape. And now there was another one trying to communicate with him, and he didn’t like it.

He considered hiding, thanking his past self for keeping all the lights off. Behind the couch seemed like a good spot.

But the knock came again, louder this time. The feet shuffled outside the door; a heavy shift - male, about Castiel’s height and weight. They felt ominous.

What if they were a burglar, checking to see if he was home before they robbed him?

Dean was a burglar, once. And he didn’t loom in the doorway like this man was doing.

The knock came yet again, and Castiel just stood there, unsure what to do.

He heard the elevator at the end of the hallway clunk and slide its doors open, and the man in front of Castiel’s apartment turned around, but did not move away.

Castiel held his breath, hearing a voice―

“Is he not in?”

_Dean’s voice._

“I was, ah, knocking? And he no answer.”

Another man, somebody Castiel didn’t recognise at all. A stranger. He was too old to be afraid of strangers, but his age never stopped him being afraid of anything.

But _Dean_ was out there, so Castiel rushed towards the door, flipping on a few light switches as he went. He opened the door to find Dean handing a short Chinese man a folded banknote. The man glanced to Castiel, then looked back to Dean and handed him a white plastic bag with something heavy inside.

“Dean,” Castiel said, frowning.

The Chinese man bowed his head slightly. “Have a good night!” he said, smiling. Then he started walking to the elevator.

Dean beamed at Castiel, pointing at the plastic bag he was now holding. “Ordered us some chow. Hope you’re hungry.”

“I am,” Castiel said, standing back to let Dean inside, which Dean did without a moment of pause, and Castiel closed the door behind him. “But what made you think I needed food?”

Dean shrugged, making his way into the kitchen and setting the bag down, then sticking his hands into it. “Figured you’d had another late night. I’m not having you survive on coffee and leftover pudding.”

Funny, Castiel thought, that was exactly what he’d planned on eating tonight.

Castiel stood quietly at the edge of the kitchen, one hand banded around his opposite arm, watching Dean fetch cutlery, ignoring the wooden chopsticks that came in the bag.

Dean looked up suddenly, catching Castiel’s eye. “Cas, you okay?”

Castiel forced a small smile. “I’m fine.” He blinked a few times, looking away. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Dean slowly set down everything he was holding, eyes still on Castiel. “Wait. Is this okay, that I’m here? I didn’t mean to get all invasive or... anything...”

Castiel considered that, trying to disentangle his feelings of fatigue and lingering dread from an unknown housecall from the feelings of wanting to be alone. And then, he weighed up the feeling he now felt; safe, protected - saved from his fear by the one person he cared about more than anything.

He lifted his eye and smiled at Dean, then shook his head. “It’s fine. I want you here.”

He smiled more, because saying it aloud made it even more true, and it felt so _good_ not to be telling a lie. Lies felt like darkness on his tongue, but _these_ words felt like rising air, light, like evaporation of the past darknesses he’d spoken.

“There’s never been anyone who is always welcome in my home,” Castiel added, rushing with a gladness that helped him take steps closer to Dean. He set their shoulders together, both standing beside the kitchen island.

Dean stuck forks into the white rectangular boxes the take-out came in, then handed Castiel his box. “Awesome.”

Castiel smiled, feeling bouncy, and he leaned in and kissed Dean below his eye, bumping his glasses by accident. Dean didn’t mind, and he did nothing more than blink slowly, eyes raking in Castiel smile, like he understood everything Castiel had fought with to bring him so close.

“C’mon, let’s go sit down, huh?”

Castiel nodded, letting Dean lead the way. He peered into his box as he followed, seeing long, thin noodles and chunks of lengthways-textured meat. Its aroma made his mouth water, and he prodded at the top of it with the fork Dean had put in.

“What is this?” he asked, glancing up to Dean as Dean pulled out a barstool from the other side of the kitchen island. He offered Castiel the stool, so Castiel sat down first.

Dean made his own stool squeal on the tiles as he pulled it close. “Beef stir-fry. Chock-full of MSG, so it’s gonna blow your mind with its fucking deliciousness.”

“I thought MSG was bad.”

Dean shrugged, shoving a mouthful into his mouth, leaving noodles to drag from his lips. “Who caresh? It taytsh greahk.”

Castiel put a more tentative forkful of food into his mouth, watching Dean while he tested the salty, rich brown flavour.

Dean gulped, smacking his lips together. “Why’re you looking at me like that? You never had Chinese before?”

“Not in a box.”

Dean smirked. “The box is a box. Food’s the same.”

Castiel had to agree - it did taste wonderful. Moreish, and possibly addictive. He began scooping it into his mouth without finishing his previous mouthful, noodles attached to more noodles being sucked into the vacuum of his hungry mouth.

Dean sat there gaping, absent-mindedly holding a lump of beef on his fork.

Castiel caught himself and looked away before he embarrassed himself too badly, and began to eat in a somewhat more civilised manner.

He closed his eyes after a while, his tiredness getting to him. He’d barely slept in days - the fact he’d stayed up practically all of Wednesday night was not something he was proud of, but neither did he regret what he’d done with his time.

Peeking at Dean, he smiled. Just seeing him there, scoffing down mouthfuls of sauce-slick noodles, it was comforting.

They ate slower the further down their boxes they got. Castiel had to reach for a paper napkin, having smeared sauce both down his chin and on his shirt. Dean laughed at him, then took the napkin and wiped his face for him.

Castiel’s face hurt from smiling.

Dean tickled his lips with the napkin, and Castiel wriggled away with a laugh.

“Your eyes get so cute when you laugh,” Dean chuckled, kicking Castiel’s foot with his own. He’d taken his boots off when Castiel hadn’t been watching, and his socks were soft, the toe with a hole in it. “They do this little squinching thing, and your nose crinkles up. I never saw anyone else’s nose do something like that before.”

Castiel returned to sitting politely, with the exception of the elbow he left crooked on the bartop. He stared at his food, instead seeing Dean’s face in his mind, visualising every movement he made when he laughed. “I like when you lean over backwards,” Castiel said, glancing over at Dean. “Sometimes you laugh so hard you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Dean grinned, still chewing. “Only you or Sammy ever made me laugh that hard. I’m a communal laugher.”

“I’m not.”

Dean snorted, bobbing his head as he stabbed a bit of meat and examined it in front of his face. “You’re not a communal anything. You’re like a hermit crab.”

“Did you know that sea anemones and hermit crabs live together?”

Dean paused, staring at Castiel.

Castiel realised he ought to explain. “A juvenile hermit crab picks up young sea anemone, and that single anemone lives on its shell for its whole life, even when the crab changes shell. They look after each other. The anemone keeps predators away, and the...” Castiel swallowed the food in his mouth, stuck for the rest of his sentence. “I’m not sure what the crab does for the anemone, but I’m sure you must see something in me.”

Dean blinked at his food, then at Castiel’s fidgeting hands as he twirled his fork. “I thought anemones were plants.”

“They are,” Castiel said. “But _sea_ anemones are carnivorous animals. They’re named after a kind of flower.”

Dean stared at his fork, then stuck some more beef in his mouth. “Oh.”

After a few seconds, he turned to Castiel, holding out another stabbed chunk of food. “Here, eat this.”

Castiel looked at the proffered morsel, then at Dean. “It’s the same as what I have.”

“Yeah, but this one’s mine.”

Castiel was confused, but then he supposed it was nicer to have Dean offer him food rather than taking it himself. He leaned in and bit the mouthful off Dean’s fork, pulling backwards with it pinched between his teeth. He chewed, smiling at Dean, then swallowed.

Dean looked really rather delighted, even if it was a subtle expression: his eyes opened wider, brightening, his lips turned up at the sides, his breath slow and gentle as his cheeks glowed.

Castiel licked his mouth empty, then speared some noodles and held them towards Dean, his box hovering under them to catch a stray noodle that attempted to slither off the fork.

Dean closed his eyes as he sank his mouth around the fork, breathing in as he pulled back.

He ate gracefully this time, no open mouth or noisy chewing. It was like he knew Castiel was watching him eat, and he wanted to impress him. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Castiel slyly, a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

Castiel hurried to feed him some more, loving it, excited by it. He shuffled forward on his stool, facing Dean completely as he set another mouthful to his lips. Dean ate it straight away, taking his time to chew, eyes only half-open.

He grunted and shifted his head away as Castiel tried to put more in his mouth. “Nghh, stop it, it’s my turn,” he complained, nudging Castiel’s offending hand out of his face. “Two-way street, dude.”

Castiel put down his box and his fork, all his attention on Dean as he waited for his open mouth to be filled.

But he was surprised by the lips that met his first, an eager little breath of Dean’s pressed over his tongue. Castiel kissed back, still slightly disconcerted that Dean’s mouth was not the food he’d expected, but conceding that it was tasty nonetheless. Dean moaned, both his hands in Castiel’s hair, enjoying this far more than Castiel had anticipated.

Dean eventually broke away, a shivering smile on his lips. His pupils had become darkened circles, his lips red and almost swollen. He licked them, then grabbed a napkin to wipe his chin. “God, that’s... so fucking hot,” he breathed, throwing the napkin back to the bartop. Castiel got the impression the words were less for _him_ than they were a commentary on Dean’s own personal awe.

A moment later, Dean was standing with his legs between Castiel’s thighs, body against his as he offered Castiel more food. “Open up,” Dean whispered.

Castiel let Dean feed him, mouthful after mouthful, happy to let Dean fill him up without pause to fill Dean instead. Dean was thrilled with this activity - he cradled Castiel’s chin as he fed him, helped wipe his face. Castiel felt his trembles, saw every tiny quirk of Dean’s lips.

They were both proud of what they did together, these bizarre moments where they took the reins away and held tight to one another, surrendering completely. Even down to the basic functions of their bodies, they _gave_ that control to each other. It was a total, complete handover of trust. Neither of them would ever be safer in anyone else’s hands. That knowledge sat in the forefront of Castiel’s mind, and made him exultant.

“One last bite,” Dean said, stroking the hair at the back of Castiel’s neck. “I think you’re almost full.”

Castiel gave a slow, lovestuck blink up at Dean. “I was full about three bites ago.”

Dean didn’t offer him the last bite. “ _Cas_ , you’re supposed to _tell_ me!”

“But I like it,” Castiel replied, opening his mouth to let Dean wipe his lips, rustling his stubble. “I like how you look at me when you’re feeding me.”

Dean looked embarrassed, sitting back on his own stool and prodding at his leftover food.

Since Dean didn’t ask, Castiel offered the description freely: “You love me.”

Dean smiled a little, poking at his food some more.

Castiel watched him, then scooted his stool closer. “Are you still hungry?”

Dean stared into his box, then shook his head. “Wish I was.”

Castiel stood up, wrapping his arms around Dean’s torso, kissing the top of his head. He smelled like plant food, taxi cabs, and his natural earthy scent. “I hope I don’t need to feed you for you to see that I love you.”

Dean rested his cheek on Castiel’s arm, trying his best to hug him back. “Yeah. I’m your resident anemone. Just give me something to stick to and I’m all good.”

Castiel chuckled, kissing the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean took a breath in quickly, then shifted in his seat. “Actually, Cas, I came over tonight... because...”

His sentence faded away, but after a few silent beats, he finished it. “The cats. The cats were getting to me. Allergies playing up, yadda yadda.” He shrugged, and Castiel hugged him a bit tighter. “Figured I could sleep here, where there’s less chance of skin rashes and sneezing.”

Castiel smiled and rocked Dean under his arms. He and Dean both knew that Dean came here because he wanted to cuddle while he slept.

They put their leftover food into the fridge, and Dean headed into the bathroom first, locking himself in. Castiel got fed up of waiting for him after the shower started running, so he went and used a different one. If there was one good thing about having an apartment that could comfortably house twenty people, it was that there was a bathroom attached to almost every room.

When he got to his bedroom after his shower, he walked in on Dean taking his towel off.

“Oh,” Castiel said, still holding the door. “Do you want privacy?”

Dean looked at him like he’d gone crazy. “You’re kidding, right?” He grinned. “Get your ass over here and pull my panties off. I want to sleep naked.”

Castiel flustered for a moment, inexplicably turned on by how confidently Dean was inviting himself into his life. Castiel kind of felt like... something had changed. Dean was more involved, more forward, more intent on pleasing Castiel.

His spectacles were folded on the nightstand, and a glass of water was set on a coaster beside them. It was like he lived here, and Castiel approved of the change. He should have been scared, but he felt like he’d been _waiting_ to see Dean’s glasses frames folded there, as well as having one of his coasters finally put to good use.

Castiel watched Dean flop back on the bed and lean his legs up, offering a free runway for Castiel to tug the pink satin off his ass. Castiel shut the bedroom door, stepping towards his bed, eyes on the dark, stormily lustful expression that Dean wore. In the light from the lamp on the nightstand, Dean’s skin was a radiant golden, barely touched by the moonlight from above.

Castiel grasped each side of Dean’s pink satin garment, breathing softly as his thumbs examined the dainty lace frill on the elastic at the top. “These are...”

Dean turned his head, giving Castiel a sultry look, eyelashes flickering. “You like them?”

“They’re soft,” Castiel said. “Softer than my bedsheets.”

Dean smiled. “Downside of satin is that it’s not great with sweat.”

Castiel nodded, leaning in to kiss Dean’s belly, just once. Slowly, he began to pull Dean’s underwear, hearing the hiss of gentle, smooth fabric sliding against Dean’s fine leg hair.

His legs were curved, their muscles tight, slender. His thighs were nothing less than powerful, thigh muscles pushing in with pale dips as Castiel dragged his fingers into them. Dean’s knees were kept together, but parted an inch as Castiel’s hands reached them, and from there, as he dragged the panties closer to himself, Dean’s legs parted, together at the ankles until the very last moment, when Castiel let the fabric drop from his hands.

All his focus set on Dean’s display: his body relaxed for Castiel to look at, no judgement going either way. Castiel was free to look at any part of Dean that he wanted, and Dean wouldn’t shy away, wouldn’t stop him for anything.

Castiel slid his right hand to touch Dean’s inner thigh, fingertips resting where the skin darkened, shading into the dusky brown-pink of his genitals. His scrotum lay heavy and wrinkled, relaxed between his thighs; his penis was flaccid, resting upward towards his navel. Castiel touched it gently, holding its soft weight between the fingers and thumb of his left hand.

Dean took in a long, deep breath, eyes closing as he let the breath free again. He wasn’t smiling, but there was no pressure on him to smile.

Castiel explored the soft, plump skin of his member, curious about it, enjoying how it felt when it wasn’t excited. This was Dean in his most elementally perfect state; sleepy, relaxed, and trusting.

Castiel played with him like a toy for a little while, letting his cock flop to each side, falling onto his pokey hip bones. He looked under Dean’s scrotum, touching the place between his legs with a gentle finger, leading that fingertip down far enough that Dean set his heels on the bed and lifted his hips a few inches, letting Castiel see his anus.

Dean’s anus was much like any other anus; dark, puckered. A minuscule flesh-red showed in the centre, his hole having been fingered while he showered. Castiel, feeling brave, slipped the tip of his smallest finger inside. Dean gave no reaction but to breathe in. Castiel made no further move to probe him, pulling free and stroking Dean’s thigh instead.

Dean let his legs rest on the bed again, and Castiel stepped away to undo his own towel, letting it fall to the floor and leaving him uncovered from head to toe. He looked back at Dean, but Dean was sitting up now, both arms held out towards Castiel. His meaning was clear: he wanted a hug.

Castiel smiled warmly as Dean curled his arms around Castiel’s back. Dean made a long humming noise, pleasure and happiness smuggled into that single note. He kissed Castiel’s bare shoulder, then sighed against him.

Castiel had expected this to go further, for them to kiss passionately, to fall together and begin making the sheets as sweaty as possible - but Dean shuffled backwards and rolled over, pulled the sheets back, then crawled straight into bed.

He looked so snuggly, purring as he buried himself under the white satin.

Castiel crawled over the mattress to join him. Usually he got into bed from the other side, and did no more than sit down and lie back. But now he was slinking, and he _slunk_ in beside Dean. The satin flapped around him as he moved it to accommodate his body, his hands moving to touch Dean’s warm skin.

“Mmmm,” Dean murmured, flipping over to face Castiel. After a quiet moment, Castiel saw his eyes widen, his lower lip rounding to ask, in a low, shy voice, “C- Could you... _cuddle_ me? Like... really tight.”

Castiel almost blushed, hearing and seeing the unbelievable amount of fight that went into Dean finally requesting that. Something he really wanted. When Castiel moved forward, set their naked bodies together under the cool sheets, Dean whimpered.

“Yeah.” Dean made another sound as he tossed his legs closer, wrapping them around Castiel’s. “Yeah, just like that.”

Castiel couldn’t really see his face, since the light through the satin was hazy at most, and the fabric drooped in front of his eyes, and Dean kept _moving_ , trying to get as close as possible. But he could still sense Dean’s quiet, shivering joy, and could hear his heavy heartbeat as their chests pressed together.

Dean snuffled, suddenly curving upward to flick off the light on the nightstand. In the darkness, Castiel again found his arms full of Dean, feeling hands clutching his back, Dean’s kisses falling gently on his neck and shoulders.

“Don’t let go of me,” Dean breathed. “Stay with me.”

“I will,” Castiel promised. “All night.”

Dean swallowed. “Uh. Heh. I meant... You don’t actually have to. If you gotta get up for something, don’t feel like you gotta stay.”

“But you want me to.”

Dean rested his face against Castiel’s, eyelashes fluttering on his lips, close enough that Castiel could nip at them if he wanted. He kissed Dean’s face all over - ten, twenty kisses, leaving a trail of them anywhere he could reach.

But Dean didn’t reply, and Castiel couldn’t think of a good question to get the answers he needed. It was like Dean wanted him there, holding him, and was confident enough to ask, but didn’t feel entitled to ask him to _stay_.

Maybe Dean meant more than just tonight. And maybe that was where Castiel had fucked up, promising the wrong thing. Dean meant for him to stay with _him_ , not just _with_ him.

By the time Castiel worked it out, Dean was snoring in his arms.

Castiel kissed each of his eyelids, and settled down to sleep, too.


	25. The Hint of the Century

When Dean woke up, he was alone. It took him a few seconds to put together where he was - there was a faint square of night sky above him, and he could see a few stars. His first thought, in his still-dreamy state, was that he was at the bottom of a well, trapped, looking up at the sky passing him by, able to see the stars even in the daytime.

But then he registered his body, the warmth of satin around him that softly went _skheeeeep_ when he moved his hands and feet. But this was not his own bed; his bed was a couch.

Castiel was not here. He was supposed to be here.

Dean could hear something in the distance, maybe part of a leftover dream. Music, a melody.

He blinked, sitting up heavily, head rolling back in his midnight bleariness. His limbs felt like they were barely attached to him, maybe still asleep. Were it not for the conscious awareness that he could see a light on outside the room, he would have assumed that he was about to do some sleepwalking.

He shuffled on bare feet towards the door, thumping his hand onto the handle, opening it. The orange glare of the lights in the lounge startled him and made his eyes water - he grunted and turned back to the bedroom, feeling like a blinded fool.

He fell on the bed and groped the nightstand for his glasses, growling as he knocked over the glass of water that he’d completely forgotten was there. He hoped Cas wouldn’t mind a little bit of water damage to his sheets and-or his carpet.

With his spectacles firmly on his face, Dean shuffled back to the door, squinting out at everything beyond. There was _music_ , and it was low and rumbling, a sweet, sweet tune - he recognised it, but couldn’t place it, nor could he determine exactly where it came from.

Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

Dean went into the bathroom, humming along to the music in his mind. He knew the tune, he knew it had lyrics. As lukewarm water from the tap woke him up a bit more, he realised that what he could hear was an instrument. He washed his hands, then his face, grabbing Castiel’s hand towel and breathing in the scent of his washing powder. The towel fibres were fluffy and absorbent, so unlike the ratty thin ones that were hung in the bathroom at Dean’s apartment.

Taking a breath and returning to the lounge, Dean blinked hard, shaking off the last of the blanketing desire to sleep. The intrigue of finding out what that _music_ was was far more relevant. He didn’t want to sleep without Cas, anyway.

Toes treading silently, Dean followed the deep hum of whatever was playing the song.

Rhythmic, slow. It vibrated underfoot, in the air.

Dean followed the hallways, looking about himself and seeing nothing to give him any clues. All the lights were on - he’d never seen all the lights on at night here. A full golden gleam reflected against oak wainscoting, polished floors, rich wallpaper - it all seemed like Christmas, warm inside, a safe cocoon giving him shelter from the cold.

Were it not for that fact he was walking naked and alone through what seemed like a deserted home, he would have been filled with childish excitement, hoping to see eleven-year-old Sammy around a corner, ready to share their final Christmas Day with Bobby Singer before the inevitable abduction.

That _song_.

It went on and on, its long notes howling in something beautiful; a poem in sound. It was something hollow, something full - Dean wouldn’t be able to describe it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard its instrument before.

Not recorded. This was live, this was coming from one of the rooms off a turning of the main hallway.

Dean’s fingertips dragged on the wall, trying to ground himself. He wasn’t dreaming. This was surreal, and almost lost in fantasy, but it was certainly not a dream.

_Sing us a song, you’re the piano man―_

He knew the song, he knew it well. He knew all the words. Nobody was singing.

_―Sing us a song, tonight;_  
 _We’re all in the mood for a melody_  
 _And you’ve got us feelin’ alright..._

He could smell Castiel. Nothing specific about him, but his scent as a whole, Dean knew it. It comforted him, it aroused a passion in him, stirring sparkles inside his body. The music continued, and the sound of it heightened Dean’s feeling, led him to an open side in the wall, through which more lights came, the oak floor spread further into a third open living area.

Dean kept his hand on the wall as he turned inside, wondering what he would find.

He hadn’t even looked into this room before. It was half the size of the painting studio, this one with electric sconce lights in the walls, cloth furniture of faded turquoise: an eight-piece lounge suite, armchairs and couches and decorative _everything_. Chandeliers, cabinets on the walls filled with wine glasses stored upside down. There was a drinks bar at the side of the room, fully stocked.

In the very centre of the room, with no armchairs near him, sat Castiel. His eyes were closed. He was perched on a wooden barstool, his legs apart, his chest bare. Between his legs was a massive, _massive_ brown musical instrument, like a giant violin. It was almost the same size as his entire body, perched on one long pin on the wooden floor. He was playing it a bit like a violin, too, left hand beside his head, holding the black neck of it with all its strings, his right hand moving a bow along and across its belly.

The sound it made was colossal; deep and low and unbelievably humungous in its flow. It called to Dean, begged him closer. He knew every lyric to the song, yet he couldn’t sing a single word, not least because seeing Castiel so absolutely lost in the piece he was playing had stunned Dean into silence.

Castiel’s head was tipped to the side, his mouth open just a little. His eyebrows were raised in exaltation, maybe everlasting surprise at the notes he played. A tiny smile of reverence kept its place on his lips.

Dean stood there, seven feet in front of him, and he didn’t make a sound. He’d never experienced anything as beautiful as this, his naked lover playing a secret serenade in the middle of the night.

_Oh, la la-la, di-dee daaa  
La la, di-dee daaaaa, da dum..._

Dean sang the words to the last chorus in his head. He swayed on his feet, grinning, head tilting this way and that as he watched Castiel _play_ , and play and play.

The finale came, notes pulling together, beauty in the movement of Castiel’s wrists, in his swift, skipping, shivering fingers. If he were to make love the way his hands played his instrument, he would be the greatest lover the world had ever seen. His skill was magnificent.

He played music the same way he touched Dean, his touch gentle, movements firm, both at once.

One hand grasping his hair in awe, Dean sighed as Castiel finished the song. He’d been holding his breath without realising it, too caught up in the music to do anything else.

The room was silent without music.

So silent it hurt.

Dean was already smiling as Castiel blinked his eyes open. Castiel wasn’t surprised to see him, he simply smiled back.

“Hello, Dean. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Y... You didn’t think I’d want to hear this, or...?”

“You wanted to sleep.”

“I wanted to stay _with_ you,” Dean rebutted, still at a loss for breath. “You bailed on me to make love to a giant violin?”

Castiel looked positively scandalised. “It - Well - I―”

Dean laughed, both hands in his hair now, fingers locked behind his head.

Castiel shut his mouth, swallowing. “It’s a double bass.”

“It’s fucking awesome, is what it is,” Dean said, laughing again. “Shit, Cas, that was the sexiest freaking thing I’ve ever seen a guy do with his hands. And I’ve seen guys cut raw diamonds.”

Castiel looked at where his hands held onto the feminine hips of his double bass, then back to Dean. “I’m sorry I left you. I wanted to - I - I don’t know. Play something, get it out of my system.”

Dean licked his lips. “Well, go on then.”

Castiel seemed abashed, blinking and looking away. He didn’t looked nearly as enthused as he had a minute ago.

“What, what’s up?” Dean asked, dropping his hands from behind his head, slapping his bare thighs. “Was this meant to be private?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s only - I’ve never played for anyone else before.”

Dean frowned. “Nobody?”

Castiel shook his head.

Dean stuck his hands on his hips, fingers pressing into the divots above his ass. “First time for everything, right?”

Castiel gathered his thoughts up internally, looking Dean’s naked body up and down. Then he nodded.

Dean’s whole body rushed with heat, seeing Castiel set his legs a little further apart, his double bass directly between them. His feet were bare, his thighs were bare; Dean could only assume he was naked behind his instrument.

Castiel closed his eyes again, and rocked from side to side a small way, readying himself. His head turned down, and rather than setting the bow to the strings, he plucked one with a finger, then plucked it again, again; he switched hands, changed notes - it became a fast rhythm, a melodic plucking - a _tune_.

With impeccable timing, he tapped a hand against the wood of the bass, a second beat. He took over with his bare foot on the floor, _tmp, tmp, tmp_.

Dean stood in frozen astonishment, watching as Castiel then set the bow to the strings.

One long, long note. It hummed, changed - fast, cut off.

Two notes, quick, quick. Five notes; he was playing the melody to a song, his foot kept the beat, fingers by his head plucking the background accompaniment.

Dean knew the song, just like the first. But this one wasn’t an old Billy Joel jukebox favourite, this was R.E.M’s _Losing My Religion_.

Castiel knew it by heart.

It was utterly incredible, and Dean, in his semi-awareness of anything that wasn’t _Castiel_ or _fucking music_ , found his hands were cupped over his mouth, eyes wide, his body locked into being a hopeless statue.

_That’s me in the corner;_  
 _That’s me in the spot - light,_  
 _Losing my religion―_

Notes carried in the open acoustics of this room, they rebounded off the silver mirror opposite the bar, they shone like lights from the chandelier. It was so _emotional_ , it was like a wolf’s howl or a dying swan, something completely connected to _everything_. Strings between places, messages between people.

Dean could feel the music in his bones. In his hands, in his eyes, in his toes; it purled through his skeleton, a lament or a riotous shriek. It wasn’t simply close to him, not only in his ears.

It was _close_ to him. _In_ him.

_Every whisper_  
 _Of every waking hour_  
 _I'm - choosing my confessions._

It meant something to them both. Dean always loved the song, but hearing voiceless singing in his head now, it held all their secrets. All their lies, all the parts of themselves they’d failed to share and had torn away eventually.

The two of them were a song. Castiel was playing _for_ Dean, but to Dean in his midnight eye, carried by the music, he was _playing_ Dean. Dean was the music, the instrument between Castiel’s legs. He was being given the message, the promise.

This was their song. Dean didn’t think he would ever have a special song for anyone that wasn’t Sam - at least not in a jokey way - but this was serious. This was everything all bundled up into one, rolled out on a melody.

Castiel’s eyes were open when Dean looked up at him. He didn’t break anything in his song, the beat never faltered, never a note in his lyrics missed out. His blue eyes captured Dean, and Dean didn’t dare to blink, lest he miss a second of the _way_ Castiel looked at him. That was love. That was love, all over his face. Under his skin where the blood ran, pumping in his veins. Dean had become his disease, a downfall for him in the same way life itself was.

_Consider this_  
 _The slip - that brought me to my knees - failed;_  
 _What if all these fantasies come flailing around?_  
 _Now I've said - too much._

The song swept Dean away. It took him somewhere quiet, somewhere the song and Castiel were the only things he needed. Away, and then right back to where he stood.

His toes were curled in ecstasy on the polished floor, fingers beside his head in terror, struck down from conscious thought.

It was just a song. It was just a fucking set of strings on a fucking hollow lump of wood. But it was more than that. Dean didn’t know how, or why - maybe he was too tired for this shit - but it was spectacular.

It went on. It went on and on and _on_ , and Dean would never grow tired of this, this song could go on forever and he wouldn’t mind. Seeing Castiel sat like that, moving his hands, a finger crooked on a thick string, wrists poised just-so to carve his song out into the air - hell, it was something that should be immortalised. Dean would never forget this.

Best moment of his life, maybe?

When the song neared its end, he began to hate it. It confused him, it gave answers but it posed too many questions as well - and the frustrating part was, all those questions were shaped as music, and if Castiel didn’t keep playing, Dean would never find his answers.

He needed it, he’d gotten addicted in the few short minutes Castiel had given him this.

The pull of the bow finished, and its silence cut Dean like a sword; the plucking of the string and the tap of Castiel’s foot went on, but then his foot stayed silent, and only the plucking, pluck-pluck-plucking kept on going.

The last few notes rounded off, grew quiet, and Castiel fanned out an array of sounds from the strings as it ended, much like he might do for a guitar, relaxing his hand.

Castiel smiled, tipping his head curiously to the side. “Did you like it?”

“Fuck me.”

Castiel’s expression changed, slipping through immediate shock, playfulness, then settling on plain smugness.

“I mean,” Dean said, clearing his throat, “that was... very...” He struggled to find words. He’d said the first thing that came up, and while it had been concise, it did not accurately explain his emotional reaction to what Castiel had played for him. “I mean. It was. Uh. I...”

“Dean, would you like to make love?”

Dean felt his cock pulse hard, practically jumping like an enthusiastic dog. Castiel couldn’t have missed it, and following his eye’s movement, he did not.

“Ah,” Castiel said, letting his bow settle beside his thigh. “You are quite the wordsmith.”

Dean covered his face with his hands and groaned.

He heard a bump and a thump, and peeked between his hands, seeing Castiel’s naked ass perking upward as he lay his double bass down flat. Dean’s gaze tracked his sleek movement as he stood back up, and his heart thumped like a drum as Castiel turned to meet his eye. Dean stared at him from behind his hands, trying to hide his shamed blush. All the things he could have said, and all he managed was ‘ _fuck me_ ’.

Castiel made his way to Dean, and Dean panted a little, seeing his cock swaying between his legs. It was partially erect, and Dean raised his eyebrows, wondering how turned on playing the song of the universe really made Cas. Maybe it was because Dean was naked. Or that he too was hard, and had become so during Castiel’s performance. Maybe it was that Cas was looking forward to what they were about to do―

“Dean?”

Dean gasped and looked into Castiel’s eyes with proper focus. “What?”

Castiel frowned, cupping Dean’s face between both hands. “Are you okay?”

“Ye- Yeah. It’s the middle of the night, I’m just tired.” He pressed his lips together. “And― And I’m sorry I blurted that out, I meant to say something like I love you and that was the most amazing thing I ever saw, and it made me feel a whole bunch of stuff I never felt before,” Dean gulped, searching Castiel’s gaze as he held it, “and I love that song, and I thought you didn’t know the song before, but you do, and I’m sorry I assumed you didn’t know it, and―”

“You assumed I didn’t know it because when you were humming it, I had to ask what it was you were humming.”

Dean blinked.

Castiel smiled. “You are not very good at humming.”

Dean breathed out and looked down, knowing Castiel could feel the heat on his cheeks as he blushed. “Yeah, I know. The cat hates it when I sing.”

Castiel murmured a small laugh and set his lips to Dean’s, a short, sweet press. He pulled off and grinned, rubbing the tip of his nose against Dean’s. “Thank you for being such a good audience.”

“By not singing along, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

Dean laughed, still chuckling as Castiel wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in to hug him. It was only brief; Dean had enough time to register the bulk of Castiel’s semi-erection, as well as the bump of his muscle against Dean’s hip, the tiny hairs on their skin sliding, the point of Castiel’s left nipple poking at Dean’s pectoral - and then he moved away, hands still hanging onto Dean’s sides.

“So,” Dean licked his lips, “about that lovemaking―?”

Castiel’s eyes crinkled, almost closing completely as he laughed. It was a perfect laugh, exactly the kind Dean had described earlier that night, nose wrinkles inclusive. “Yes,” Castiel said, nodding with his crinkled-up eyes on Dean’s mouth. “Yes, I will take you up on that offer.”

“What’re you doing about your double bass thingy?”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, then back to Dean. “It will survive there until the morning. Other matters are more pressing at the present time.”

Yeah, Dean had to agree. Castiel’s cock was _pressing_ on his thigh.

Dean gulped, accepting the amorous kiss Castiel slipped against his lips. Tongue slid past his teeth, reaching to stroke his own. Dean turned his head, reaching for the closest of Castiel’s hand so he could hold it.

Castiel slowly pulled his lips away, distracted by the way Dean took its grasp on his hand. Castiel looked at their joined fingers, then looked to Dean’s face. Dean smiled crookedly, lifting their hand to kiss their knuckles as one.

“What,” he whispered, defensively. “I like holding your hand.”

Castiel smirked. “I’m not complaining.”

Dean kissed the back of Castiel’s hand, closing his eyes. Lips to the smooth skin, feeling tendons, he mouthed, “Bedroom?”

Castiel nodded, then rested his forehead on Dean’s temple, their messy bed-ruffled hair shuffling together. “Yes.”

“Kiss me a lot, okay?” Dean whispered, frowning quickly, pushing away his embarrassment and the fast chills of shame that came as second nature for wanting that. “And hold my hand.”

Castiel nodded, Dean felt him looking at his face, eyes open even a few short inches away. “I will, Dean. Anything.”

“Cuddle me after.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s burning cheek. “I was going to anyway.”

Dean rocked himself closer, burying his face in Castiel’s neck. “Please don’t tell anyone what I like.”

“Dean... it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You’re not me.” Dean swallowed hard, pushing his lips flat. “Look, can we stop... Can we―?”

Castiel pulled on his hand, attempting to lead him. Dean let out a breath of relief, letting go of the tension that had sprung from voicing his words. Castiel hurried ahead of him, turning back once to smile so happily, so hopefully, that Dean let himself take a bet: by the end of the night, there would be nothing he’d be ashamed of doing with Castiel.

Castiel hit the lights as they went, every switch flipped off, shooting the hallway behind them into shadow. Like moths, they headed towards the remaining light, running for the first lounge. Castiel laughed, and Dean loved hearing that sound so much that he laughed too, ignoring the bob-bob-bob of his hardening cock as he ran. If anything, it gave him more to laugh about.

Castiel was breathing heavily as they neared his bedroom. He rounded on Dean, eyes dark and an animalistic prowl in the set of his shoulders; he backed Dean into the bedroom, head down, eyes on him.

Dean broke the momentary spell to dart around the bed to turn on the bedside light. “Wanna see everything,” he explained, wincing at the fact that he could now see the spilled water that had sunk into the mattress. It would probably evaporate. Maybe.

When he turned around, Castiel wasn’t in the room, but a second later, he was back.

“I had to take the pansies out,” Castiel said. “And my llama.”

“You have a llama?”

“It’s a - plush alpaca,” Castiel explained, shutting the door and crawling onto the bed, cock swaying low, lifting slightly upon conducting a visual examination of Dean’s unclothed body. “I called him Woolly.”

Dean pouted, lifting a knee onto the bed, sauntering towards where Castiel lay back, hips swaying like a stalking cat. “Don’t know about you, Cas, but I’d rather be talking about where I’m putting my dick, not the fact that my tiger and your alpaca need to have a tea party sometime.”

Castiel grinned, flopping down onto a pillow, one arm outstretched towards Dean. “And where would you like to put your dick?”

Dean felt caught out for a moment, realising he didn’t actually know. “Does it matter?” He slid his hand into Castiel’s, each of them taking hold of the other’s fingers. “Can we just kiss and cuddle and stuff?”

God, he was blushing again. Having a pink on his cheeks was so unlike him. Then again, he never said these things aloud. He had never accepted the fact that all he ever wanted when he had sex was to feel close to somebody.

Maybe kisses and cuddles were all Castiel wanted, too.

Dean stopped being embarrassed. _Man up._ If he wanted kisses and cuddles, he was going to fucking _ask_ for kisses and cuddles, and shamelessly at that. None of the frightened macho Bambi-eyed dudebro shit. It was too complicated and it was too goddamn _frustrating_.

Castiel sat up in the middle of the bed, then crossed his legs. Dean could work with that; he crawled up to Castiel’s front and kept moving forward, shifting awkwardly until he could settle his weight. After a grunt and a painful “Ow, that’s my ankle - ow-ow-ow―” Dean sat in the dip of Castiel’s crossed legs, his own legs curled around Castiel’s lower back, the heel of one foot tucked right at the top of Castiel’s ass.

Dean smiled at Castiel, happy they were so close, and, rather more selfishly, that Castiel would be the one with all the weight on his legs if Dean shifted wrong.

Castiel began to kiss Dean.

It took perhaps a few entire _minutes_ for Dean to realise they had already started doing the sex part. This was the initial make-out session, the slow and gradual release of breath, sinking them both into the pulsing, low mental and physical zone of lovemaking.

It would be the opposite of being high on each other, this would be gentle, and tender. Exactly what Dean wanted.

Their hands held onto each other, both pairs resting in the gap between their hips. Castiel soothed Dean with pleasant, delicate touches. His thumbs rubbed in circles, even on the parts of Dean’s hands that, until now, he wasn’t aware were sensitive - the fleshy part between his thumbs and forefingers, his knuckles, the muscles in his fingers.

Dean’s erection was less of an erection than a third party. With every wet slide of Castiel’s tongue, every time Dean tasted how potent their saliva was together, or every time he breathed in the slightest whiff of Castiel’s genitals, Dean’s cock would thump a blood-pumping pulse against their twisted fingers.

He made no move to touch himself at first, because the kissing was good. The kissing made him feel warm and privately loved, like he was lying in a bubble bath, maybe with a scented candle and a good book while Sammy was out all day.

While they kissed, Dean felt like weeping on occasion, some kind of weird emotion that unexpectedly pooled up into his eyes, and he didn’t understand it. It came for a flash and then it was gone again, and he sank back into the basic human rhythm of their kiss.

He’d never experienced such a range of _things_ , things that affected his whole body. Every sense was alive, even in the utter silence of the tiny room, where the city was shut away, where there were no eyes, no sounds, no outside forces of any kind. He could hear his own heart. He could hear Castiel’s. He counted their breaths until he lost track, until both their lungs breathed in sync.

Castiel’s hands massaged his. Thumb pads rolled patterns, repeating shapes over the heels of his hands. Fingernails teased him, tickled the centres of his palm, but Dean stayed proud: he didn’t crack up into quiet laughter.

Over more long minutes, rough calluses on his fingers slowly became worn away just by over-sensitisation. Cas’ fingerprints on his own were like noticable ridges at times, otherwise they felt so smooth that he forgot what having fingertips was like, and was touching Castiel with some spindly extension of his heartbeat.

Castiel managed to fade away the scars on his hands, just by showing them a little love. They’d come back later, but for the time being, Dean couldn’t feel them, numbed to them, sensitive to everything else instead.

Castiel’s mouth tasted like an asylum for Dean, refuge from every bitter harshness the world had ever shown him prior to tonight.

Dean moaned so weakly, it was barely a noise at all. But it was how he communicated his pleasure to Castiel, telling him that this was what he wanted, this was what made him excited. Sex didn’t need to be bone-crushing, wall-smashing, his cock didn’t need to be bloodhard and pounding like a headache; he could simmer, and he could hush and roll in the way of an incoming tide over a seashore, and he could still be sharing a deep mental, physical, and spiritual connection.

Over the minutes they spent connected at the mouth, Dean must have thought words about love, words about Castiel, hundreds of times, thousands. Perhaps that was where the surprise tears were coming from, not quite coming from nowhere.

Castiel eventually nosed Dean away, swallowing, needing to break their hands apart to wipe a shiny wet smear of saliva from around his mouth. Dean grimaced and did the same, able to smell the tart scent of their spit.

A quick flick of Dean’s eyes to Castiel’s mouth let him see the puffy soreness of Castiel’s lips, and Dean guessed his must be the same, if the stingy tingle was any indicator.

“Would you like to start touching?” Castiel asked, voice low. “My penis hurts.”

Dean chuckled, eyelashes flickering. “All right. Hey, should I keep my glasses on?”

“Do you want to be able to see?”

Dean tilted his head. “Well, you’re right in front of me. I could still see you without them. Maybe don’t move too far away.”

Castiel nodded, accepting that. He held back for only a second before he swept both hands up, fingers bordering Dean’s glasses frames, and he pinched them at the sides. Dean kept his eyes open, watching his vision become peculiar portals, like he was looking through a fish tank, as Castiel pulled his spectacles off.

His eyes felt bare once the frames were gone. He blinked, his face weightless. As Castiel lay back, legs still crossed, he exposed his long torso, reaching to set the frames on the nightstand. He did a sit-up to return to Dean, and Dean smiled, having felt the muscles of Castiel’s legs tensing to help him move.

“Did you spill your water?” Castiel asked, squinting accusingly at Dean as he began to tug his cock, soft strokes.

“It was dark, and your music and empty bed freaked me out,” Dean said. “I’ll dry it up later?”

Castiel cooed under his breath as he framed Dean’s face with his hands, moving in to kiss him. “It’s all right,” he whispered, between kisses. “You’re forgiven.”

Dean melted into him as Castiel returned his hands to his parted legs. Dean felt a weight off his shoulders that came from those words, _forgiven, forgiven, you’re forgiven,_ and that feeling had nothing to do with the spilled water.

More tears welled. It was frightful, getting so emotional about what seemed like _everything_ now, when just a few months ago he was happy to shoot first and bottle it all up for later use when he needed to shoot something again.

Ah. That was where he went wrong. That was why the tears were coming up, even in the most inapposite of moments. That lifetime’s worth of bottled-up emotion was releasing now, in short, brief bursts, along with every thought that had him believe he was safe, he was loved, he was in a place free of judgement.

Castiel was what had changed him. This version of Dean wouldn’t shoot without looking, he would offer a hand, ask a question or two first. Castiel helped him see things through the eye of a child put into the world unprepared, screening past mistakes and corruptions layered on a person simply by falling down the wrong hole. Everyone had a problem, and Dean was fixing his.

Although, when they met, Dean had already broken his wall enough to admit he liked some beautiful things. The firm hips of a man, the soft fold of a delicate fabric, the waxen petals of a flower, butterflies. One beauty had led to another, and now, what he had in this bed encompassed everything Dean revered in that way: the hand of a generous man around him, his skin and touches as splendid as the finest rose - amid sheets of satin, they played and they explored, and for Dean, this was part of what made up his Heaven.

Perhaps it was not all down to Castiel: together the two of them had crumbled that wall. It took two.

Castiel moaned all of a sudden, wanton and more urgent; Dean smiled and let out a breath as Castiel began humping at him, rolling his hips so his cock was nudging onto Dean’s, bumping his hip bones and the skin between his legs. Hands clutched at Dean’s back, hauling him even closer.

Dean felt Castiel’s hurried little breaths on his shoulder, hearing the tiny hollow groans caught in Castiel’s throat.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered.

There was no sentence attached, it was simply a declaration of pleasure, desire. Dean listened for all his wee huffy noises, _ah! ah! ah!_ , savouring each one.

Castiel was so heated, Dean’s skin was almost sticky as Cas rubbed at his perineum, hungry movements, holding his body tightly as he drove into him. Only inches he moved, only small bumps and rolls, enough to make Dean’s cock swell with the sensation; his erection grew firmer, longer, reacting to Castiel rocking his abdomen against him.

Castiel was leaking pre-come against Dean’s navel, warm. Dean nuzzled his forehead onto Castiel’s shoulder, trying to tip his head down to see the liquid sliding out of Castiel’s slit. He liked seeing it, he liked its clear shine.

Sliding a hand away from the back of Castiel’s neck, Dean dipped his fingers between their bodies. He pulled his torso away enough that Castiel could still rub on him, but Dean could finger Castiel’s cockhead. Castiel murmured a surprised sound as Dean tapped a gentle fingertip into his slit, tap-tap-tap, watching the pre-ejaculate cling to his fingerprint. The touch extended drools of fluid between the contact like minute rope bridges, pulling longer and steeper until gravity snapped them and a cold trickle landed on Dean’s inner thigh.

Dean glanced up and met Castiel’s eye, then lifted his wet finger and put it into his own mouth, lapping it clean with the tip of his tongue. The sour taste of it made his tongue curl back, and he made an involuntary sound of enjoyment, spreading the sample across the roof of his mouth. Castiel’s eyes darkened, blinking slowly. Dean slid the fingertip out of his mouth, running saliva across his lower lip, feeling how full kissing had made it.

Then he tipped his hand over and put that same fingertip into Castiel’s mouth. A heat soared and tumbled in Dean’s body as Castiel parted his lips softly to allow the finger inside; Dean felt his teeth, then the wet prod of his tongue at his nail. Castiel sucked, and sucked hard - Dean gasped, yelped, rocking his hips as he found his finger lavished with attention from Castiel’s milking tongue. Dean breathed hard, whimpering as he watched Castiel nurse his finger, rolling his tongue, offering the most playful of nibbles.

When he allowed Dean his finger back, Dean didn’t know what to do with it. He loved that finger now, it was special and it was wet with Castiel’s love, and he wanted to put it _inside_ him, but didn’t want this session to become all about his insides, about his anus or his rectum or about making each other come. He loved this, he loved putting hands in mouths, feeding each other parts of their bodies, parts of each other. Those parts would be holy when they were taken back.

Castiel solved Dean’s dilemma for him, erasing his thoughts of _inside_ when he began to worship Dean’s hands with more kisses. Dean moaned, coming undone as he watched Castiel close his eyes, mouth setting touch after touch against Dean’s loose-held fingers, dangling his hand for Castiel to smother.

Dean’s saliva-wet finger dried as Castiel rubbed his face on it, smearing everything away. Dean became immune to the scent of spit, breathing in the raw scent of skin instead. Heat and the rubbing made their bodies pure against each other, the scent of sore skin making Dean’s mouth water. Oh, it was good, it was so good. He could smell Cas’ cock, and he could smell his own, he could inhale it deeply and it was the scent of _intimacy_ , not vile in any way. Yes, it was ugly, but they were human and humans were ugly. They were human and humans were beautiful.

Castiel held onto Dean’s hips, still fucking against him in easy, grinding motions. His hands were sweating, and they moved every so often to take Dean closer, to pull his ass or his hips. When Dean’s hand was thoroughly covered in kisses, he let that hand fall, and he took hold of Castiel’s cock to touch him; Castiel whimpered, and set one of his arms vertical against Dean’s back, whole hand taking Dean’s head in its grasp, hauling his body into his hand, making him skim his member faster.

“Is that good?” Dean asked, a tremble and a grit in his voice. “You like my hands touching you?”

Castiel grinned, flustered. He nodded quickly, another fast sound breaking from his throat. “Yes. Yes, yes. Kiss me. Kiss me.”

Dean drowned out the third plea with his merciful lips, taking Castiel’s mouth with his own. His free hand moved off Castiel’s hip and slid under his arm instead, palm flat on Cas’ back, sliding up, sliding over his shoulder bone, finally moving to grip the tufts of hair at the base of Castiel’s skull. But Castiel grunted in discomfort, so Dean let that hand relax, and he spread his fingers, holding Castiel’s head the same way Castiel held his.

They kissed like that, pulling each other’s faces deeper against their tongues, licking into caverns unseen, tasting more than just each other and themselves, tasting emotion, experiencing touch like an tide. Dean shook and shivered, and Castiel steadied him with the arm banded against his lower back, thumb shifting to soothe, encourage.

Dean used his hand on both their erections, grasping them together in a wide grip. Castiel growled as Dean pitched a guttural sound - an unimaginative moan, but he was too honest with his cries to manage anything else. Their cockheads pressed, hard pinked flesh flattening where the rounded shapes met and were squashed together under Dean’s hand.

Dean took care to watch where Castiel’s pre-come ran, because he loved seeing it so very much. He touched it and played with it as he rubbed Cas’ manhood and forced out more. This activity did not escape Castiel’s notice; Dean gathered he must have made a lot of throat-bare noise every time Castiel’s cock pulsed out a tiny bit more fluid.

“Dean,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s cheek. “Dean, would you like to try something?”

Dean met his eye, managed only a groan. Castiel smiled, taking the groan as a green light.

“Put some of your pre-come in my cock slit,” Castiel whispered. Dean loved the flush that touched on his cheeks, shining in his eyes. “Mix it all together.”

Dean’s whole body lit up inside, foreseeing what would happen. He nodded hastily, then let go of Castiel’s hair and set both hands at their cocks. Castiel released his tight hold on Dean’s back and head, putting his hands onto his own thighs instead, rubbing up and down, up and down, self-soothing. He breathed hard as Dean inched forward, as careful with what he was doing as a scientist over an experiment.

Dean jacked himself off, panting as a feeling heightened - he gasped as he felt and saw a fresh burst of pre-come flowing from him. Immediately, he took a firm hold of Castiel’s cock with his other hand, and pressed his thumb and fingers either side of the head, opening up the slit so it became a small, dark hole, open for Dean to seep his fluid inside.

Castiel was watching Dean’s hands do this, and Dean smirked as he heard Castiel’s long, ripe moan. Dean purred and kissed Castiel’s jaw, returning his attention to spurt a little more inside. His cock drooled fluid messily, it didn’t go where it was supposed to go, but with his lower lip between his teeth and a stealthy concentration, Dean put aside his stifling arousal for long enough to drip a significant amount of pre-come into the tip of Castiel’s penis.

Sighing, he sat back, satisfied.

Castiel hummed a note. “Now hold it closed.”

Dean nodded, licking his lips, squeezing his thumb over Castiel’s slit, keeping it shut with a fat pinch so that none of the pre-ejaculate could escape. With his other hand, he began pumping Castiel’s cock like a piston, jacking it, tugging and tugging until Castiel was gasping raw, clawing at Dean’s shoulders and pulling his hair in a desperate rise of pleasure.

“Almost, almost,” Dean whispered, kissing Castiel’s neck in encouragement. “Five, four,” he jacked harder, faster, “three, two,” Castiel cried out, “one.”

Dean let go of Castiel’s cock, and they both watched intently, panting, holding each other as Castiel’s slit poured with bottled-up pre-come - both Dean’s and his own, thick and oozing and clear, running in a long stream down his length and pooling on Dean’s thigh.

It shone on their skin, and it was _warm_ , and its scent was so potent and rich; upon sensing so much of it on him, Dean moaned open-mouthed, a moan that turned into a long whine. Castiel could only fill his mouth with an excited kiss to satisfy the consummate lust in that sound.

Castiel put his hands on Dean’s cock, wet with both their fluid. He played around with it, and Dean went crazy at the sight, those perfect fingers skimming his cock, slipping, _slipping_ on his skin. The sound of its slickness was music all of its own, the fitting accompaniment to Castiel’s performance, with Dean as his instrument.

Dean panted hard, both his hands moving to grab the nape of Castiel’s neck, holding onto him for dear life as Castiel played him away. “Oh god. Ohgodohgod, Cas - _Cas_ ,” Dean gasped, resting his open mouth on Castiel’s face, eyes down to watch. Everything was so fucking _wet_ , he loved it, he _loved_ it.

“I want to kiss you, Dean,” Castiel whispered, nuzzling at Dean’s face. “All over. All of you.”

Dean bucked at him. “Do it. Put your mouth on me. Do it, do it.”

“Ask nicely.”

“ _Please._ ”

“There, perfect,” Castiel nodded, murmuring a wordless sound as he calculated how to move next.

Dean saved him the trouble of deciding, and simply flopped backwards, letting go of Castiel with every part of him but his crossed legs. His erection thwacked to point towards his navel, his body exposed to Castiel. He tucked his hands behind his head, showing Castiel his underarms too, then he uncrossed his legs. Now he was spread for Cas, all his.

Castiel grunted as he uncrossed his legs too, trying not to scratch Dean’s lower back with his toenails as he did so. Dean lifted his hips up to let him escape, and when Castiel was free, Dean’s legs fell open, groaning quietly, feeling comfortable with this vulnerability.

Castiel smiled sweetly as he crawled over Dean and began to kiss his chest, starting at his heart; kiss, kiss, kiss. Dean chuckled under his breath as Castiel trailed kisses up to his underarm, and his face vanished from Dean’s eyeline as those kisses dipped into his armpit.

It should have tickled, and it should have made Dean laugh and squirm away, but Castiel’s kisses were so _tender_. He licked him a bit. Under Castiel’s intimate touches, the flicks of his fingers he made on Dean’s erect nipples, and the bites he put on the soft skin on Dean’s armpit, Dean fell unmasked.

Dean moaned as Castiel inhaled his scent, and he couldn’t be embarrassed by the fact he was sweating, because Cas was sweating too: there was a sheen across his forehead, his hands were sticky where he touched Dean’s chest. But Cas _breathed it in_ , and somehow it wasn’t gross for him, Cas liked it, _Dean_ liked it.

When Castiel returned his licking kisses to Dean’s chest, moving to his shoulders, Dean put a hand on his cock and started touching himself, because he could get off like this, watching Castiel bestow him with pampering kisses. Feeling it. Feeling how good it was, how tingly it made him inside.

Castiel cupped the side of Dean’s head, cradling his jaw and the sensitive place behind his ear. The other side of Dean’s face got covered with kisses in abundance, and it made Dean dizzy, mewling in adoration at how sweetly those lips touched him. Castiel’s breath came evenly and gently, the kisses irregular and sudden and washing over Dean like a tidal wave, five, six at once, then silence and nothing for a few moments as Castiel found a new place on Dean’s face to kiss him.

His cheeks, his jaw, the place beside his mouth. The dip under his nose, then the hollows of his eyes, erasing the wrinkles under them as if they were never there. His eyebrows, the thick frown lines that no longer creased Dean’s forehead. His temples, his hairline, the firm part of his ear, then the soft parts.

By the time Castiel started kissing the delicate skin shadowed by the shell of his ear, Dean felt like he was going to pass out. Having Castiel’s scent all around him, having his face so close, his hands touching him all over - shifting, always shifting: his hips, his nipples, the inner parts of his thighs - it was intoxicating. Dean could have basked in him forever, being loved like this.

But then Castiel moved the kisses down, and Dean wanted to cry again. “No... no, back, come back―”

“I have to kiss all of you,” Castiel said, lapping his tongue in the gutter between Dean’s collarbones. “I will love all of you, Dean.”

Dean shut his mouth and moaned, feeling his own corrupted, shaky frown.

Castiel jacked himself off as he kissed, moving down and kissing each and every one of Dean’s ribs. Dean saw his breath shaking his own chest, set aflame by those kisses. He couldn’t keep his noises inside him, he was calling to Castiel, begging and pleading in words that weren’t words at all.

Castiel let go of his own cock and took hold of Dean’s instead, and Dean cried out weakly as he felt pre-come slick on Castiel’s hand, still hot from where he’d been pulling on himself.

“More,” Dean whispered. “More, Cas, please.”

Castiel pulled on him slowly, gently, the sound of his smooches like a prayer to Dean. So soft on his hip bone, Castiel’s nose poked into the muscle there. Dean’s cock pulsed as Castiel breathed him in again. Dean loved that, when Cas liked how he smelled. It was weird and so unbelievably devotional, and Dean hoped it was that devotion which would be his undoing tonight.

Castiel’s hand then slid off Dean’s cock, and Dean lifted his head, resting the weight of his torso on his elbows to better see what Castiel was going to do. Cas kept going with those kisses, hands taking the underside of Dean’s thighs to pull them apart, either side of Castiel’s head. Dean let Cas do what he will, anticipating anything he cared to try.

Castiel sank his face between Dean’s legs, and Dean relaxed, calling out a long, peaceful groan as Castiel licked at his perineum, licking, licking, licking down until he reached Dean’s anus. Dean fell back onto the bed, rocking his weight onto his shoulders and pulling his knees up to his chest, legs apart.

Castiel followed the movement effortlessly, tongue lapping hot swipes against Dean’s ass, dipping inside once or twice. Dean gasped each time, eyes shutting in a fleeting delirium that shot right to his head. He could feel his own cock dripping one ceaseless trail of pre-come on his chest, a thin string that cooled as it fell.

That _tongue_... Castiel grasped Dean’s thighs tightly, held him down as he licked him, tip of his tongue circling the rim of Dean’s hole. Dean whimpered, a squeaky and extremely feminine vocalisation, but he didn’t care about that crap any more, it was all about how fucking _amazing_ Cas made him feel.

Castiel murmured, “Mm,” and Dean peeked open his eyes just in time to see him spit on Dean’s ass, wetting it, slicking him up.

Dean almost came. “Sh... Shit yes, do that again, do it again―”

Castiel nosed up from where he was eating Dean’s ass, his blue eyes perfectly innocent while his tongue was busy sinning. “Hmmh?” he mouthed, sinking his tongue into Dean’s hole.

Dean grasped his own hair in his hands, crying out. “Spit. Spit on me, Cas...”

Castiel’s eyes dipped to Dean’s hot-flushed chest, then back to his face. Slowly he retracted his lips, tongue back in his mouth, saliva all over his cheeks, on his chin. He looked at Dean curiously, considering that request.

Dean didn’t want him to _think_ about it, because Dean didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to trace back the reasoning behind why he liked being treated like trash, because right now, all he knew was that Cas making him warm and wet between his legs was something that felt _right_.

Dean didn’t have the chance to say anything further than a croak, because Castiel thought it through faster than he did, and Dean gasped, feeling and seeing another bubbly strand of saliva spat on his ass. The glob of it slid on its own weight, and Dean trembled as he felt it slide between his buttcheeks, warm, partially cool, but so fucking _hot_.

Dean put a hand between his legs and started rubbing a finger through the wetness. He kept his eyes on the pose his fingers held as he touched himself, middle finger outstretched to slide in the partition of his perineum, running the faint ridge there with Castiel’s saliva as lubrication, other fingers pressing to hold his balls down. His back ached from holding his legs above his head, and his knees were shaking close to his shoulders, but he kept going, because seeing Castiel’s lips part, seeing his intense gaze as he watched Dean touch, it all made Dean burn up with heat, all-consuming lust.

Castiel’s arm began to move, jerking off as he watched Dean finger his own ass. Dean curled a hand behind his head, greedy eyes on Castiel. He slipped the tip of his middle finger inside himself, smirking as Castiel gasped in silence.

Slowly Dean let his legs slid down, meaning to let them relax, but Castiel never let him get that far.

Castiel caught one of his legs with both hands, holding him in a fierce grip that let Dean know he meant business. Dean’s finger slipped out of himself, and he made no move to set it back inside. With their eyes locked, Castiel ducked his head, mouth opening to put a kiss onto Dean’s knee, one kiss.

“What’re you gonna do?” Dean asked, grinning as he scruffed at his own hair, his other hand ever so slowly pulling on his cock, fingering his slit.

“I never finished kissing you,” Castiel whispered, eyes closed as he put another kiss to the inside of Dean’s right knee, making him feel a fast burst of pleasure. He’d never been kissed there, and he kind of felt like he’d never been touched there _at all_ , and it was a crime; that kiss was wonderful. “I’m going to kiss everything on your body.”

“A- All my scars?” Dean whispered, clenching up slightly in what felt like fear.

Castiel smiled, lifting Dean’s leg and kissing the tendon behind his knee. “What scars?” he muttered, kissing again. “I don’t see any. You have no scars, Dean.”

That rise of emotion came up again, and Dean battled it down, not wanting to be the guy who cried during sex. When Castiel said things like that, _nice_ things, it made him love him more, and every time he loved him more, it made him _feel_.

Dean lay back, his pulls on his cock slowing to almost nothing. He relaxed, watching Castiel gratify him with touch, with dreamy caresses. Castiel kissed down his calf, kneeling and tilting his chin upward, making soft sounds as he kissed, lifting Dean’s leg higher so his foot was pointed at the ceiling.

Castiel bent his leg for him as he reached for his ankle, and again, Dean rushed with unknown new pleasures as Castiel left kisses on the baby-soft skin of his ankle.

“You’re gonna kiss my feet?” Dean asked, a tentative whisper in the otherwise silent room.

Castiel’s dark eyes opened and he flicked his heavy, enamoured gaze up Dean’s body, resting their eyes on each other. “Yes, Dean,” he said, kissing the inside triangle of Dean’s foot, one kiss after another, heading for his toes. “Every part of you.”

Dean’s eyelids batted as he tried to process both how great those kisses felt as well as the fact Castiel was happy to provide them. “B- But they’re feet.”

Castiel snickered, teeth sliding ever so gently on the tip of one of Dean’s toes. He kissed that toe, and Dean gasped, bucking his hips.

“They may be feet,” Castiel whispered, his breath tickly and warm on Dean’s toes, “but they are _your_ feet, and,” he kissed the ball of Dean’s foot, nose dipping into the partition between two of his toes, “therefore I love them as much as every other part of you.”

Dean swallowed as Castiel kissed the very centre of Dean’s sole, and he felt his thick stubble and plush lips and the point of his nose.

“It...” Dean bit his lip, “it feels kinda good...”

Castiel smiled, watching Dean while he put one lingering, almost wet kiss against his sole. Dean felt him blink, eyelashes flicking on his thick skin. “Noted for later,” Castiel breathed, giving Dean’s heel a final kiss before he lowered Dean’s foot to his chest height, bending forward to kiss the top of it.

Dean started jacking himself off again, because it did feel very good. New and exciting. And the way Castiel looked at him from far below, with both his hands cupping Dean’s foot, his ankle, cosseting him with more of those smoochy, licky, nibbly kisses, made Dean infuse with warmth, splendid heat and a complete feeling of... belonging.

Castiel sank his tongue between Dean’s big toe and his second toe, and Dean moaned, seeing the filthy hot look Castiel shot him.

Castiel grinned, rubbing his palms under Dean’s sole. “You like that,” he said, an observation rather than a question. He licked Dean’s toes again, and Dean felt every one of Castiel’s taste buds, thick, hot, wet muscle _pounding_ a line on him, lapping once, twice, dipping again. Dean panted, whispering helpless phrases as his hand flew on his cock, slick and loud and fast.

Castiel, with his eyes still on Dean’s face, began to suck two of Dean’s toes. Dean saw that happen, felt the way Castiel’s lips parted and sank around him like they did for his fingers or his cock, and Dean’s head rolled to the side, groaning, lost into a blank oblivion. His hand didn’t stop moving, automatically beginning a race for his climax.

He whimpered. “Hold my hand,” he said under his breath. “Want you here.”

Castiel stopped sucking and licking a moment later, and Dean opened his eyes, sensing a change. He turned his head to meet Castiel as he crawled over Dean, head hanging over Dean’s face.

“Hi,” Dean whispered.

Castiel blinked, smiling. “I thought you were about to come.”

“I was,” Dean said, gulping and looking at Castiel’s lips. He had sucked Dean’s freaking _toes_ with those lips.

“And?” Castiel sank his face down, offering Dean a soft and rolling kiss, one that was sticky from the dried saliva around Castiel’s mouth. Dean purred, letting go of his cock to wrap his arms around Castiel’s back, pulling him down to cuddle him.

Castiel lay between his legs, and Dean slung his knees over the backs of Castiel’s thighs, keeping him close.

“And,” Dean finally said, putting a kiss on Castiel’s forehead, “making me come should be a joint effort.”

Castiel twisted a bit, his hand finding Dean’s. Dean smiled as he watched them both stretch to their side, their fingers sliding to lock together, dangling over the edge of the bed.

“Mm, I like that better,” Dean said, turning his head on the satin to watch Castiel’s face. “Do you like that better?”

Castiel nodded, nose bumping Dean’s. “I do.”

Dean smiled, shifting his hips upward, rubbing on Castiel’s cock, which was tucked down between Dean’s parted legs. His own cock was set between his and Castiel’s abdomens, pressing into Dean’s body. It was so _hard_ , but he didn’t really care, which was another thing new for him. He cared more about the cute smile Castiel was wearing, and he heat of his cheek as he rested it on Dean’s upper chest, and how he was looking out at their joined hands, a sleepy contentment all over his expression.

“Cas?”

“Mm,” Castiel rumbled, blinking his dark lashes.

Dean trailed a fingertip back through Castiel’s hair, letting it ripple and tousle and part under his single stroke. “I love you.”

He felt Castiel’s smile on his skin. “And I you, Dean.”

Dean sighed, sliding his other hand to rub Castiel’s lower back, gradually making his way down to massage and grab at Castiel’s meaty ass.

He refused to think about what they still had before them; Daphne had given the two of them her blessing, but even on that grounds, Castiel was still lying to her, since he knew nothing about what Dean had told her. It was too tatty-ended, and this moment was too beautiful to ruin with the sorrows that still lingered in the back of Dean’s mind.

Someday, he wanted to lie like this again, mid-coitus, taking a break because it was tiring, and he wanted it to last. He wanted to have this kind of night every night, and while it wouldn’t be possible, they could try. Dean always wanted to try.

“Cas, I love you.”

“You already said that.”

“I wanna say it again, there a crime in that?”

Castiel chuckled, and it shook Dean’s chest. “I thought you said you didn’t want to wear it out.”

Dean flicked his eyes to the ceiling, tracing the curving spreads of gold that came from the bedside light. “I’m saying it ‘cause I mean it.”

“Ah, so you will admit that saying it doesn’t lessen its value,” Castiel smiled, perking up off Dean’s chest, starting to hump him slowly, with a heavy roll of his hips. “And there I was, thinking every time I confessed how happy you make me, I would somehow become less happy.”

Dean swatted at his ear, laughing. “It’s not like that, dumbass. I meant, if you say it a lot, then, I dunno, it’s a habit rather than, uh...” He tapped his chest with a hand, two beats of his heart. “Rather than a proper heartfelt confession.”

Castiel shook his head, still smiling, still rocking his weight into Dean’s body. “If I tell you I love you tomorrow, I’ll mean it.”

“Just tomorrow?”

Castiel kissed Dean slowly on the lips, both their eyes closing, soft exhales hushing from them. When Castiel broke away, he spoke against Dean’s mouth. “In a week, I’ll mean it.”

Dean slid his legs upward, locking them at the ankle over Castiel’s ass. “In a month?”

Castiel kissed him. “In a year.”

Dean started breathing a little heavier, seeing where the pattern was taking them. “What about... two years.”

“I will still love you. The same way I do now. I will want to kiss you,” he kissed him, “I will want to pleasure you,” he pushed down harder, making Dean buck, gasp, squeeze the hand he was holding tighter, “I will want to tell you I love you, because I will.”

Castiel chuckled all of a sudden, putting kisses on Dean’s cheek, falling to his ear. In a whisper, he breathed words for Dean, “I’ll wash your clothes for you, because I like doing laundry. In summer I’ll kiss you in the rowing boat on the pond, and I’ll paint with you every evening, and I will sleep with you at night.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean gasped out.

“I’ll shout at you when you annoy me, and I’ll throw things at you when you don’t stop. I’ll _hate_ you―” he fucked down, so hard Dean saw stars, “and I will want to hurt you, and I’ll want you gone, I’ll never want to see you again―”

“Cas - I - I don’t like this kind of dirty-talk―”

“―But every time!” Castiel cut over Dean, suffocating his rising panic with a soft caress. “Every time I will love you again. Because, Dean, I can’t bear my life without you. If you don’t hurt me, I won’t hurt you.”

Dean closed his eyes tight and rested his face against Castiel’s moving shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin. “Don’t... don’t hurt me.”

“Exactly,” Castiel agreed, stroking Dean’s hair as he rode against him, soft and gentle. “I want to keep you safe.”

Dean felt wretched, because Castiel couldn’t save him from the kinds of things Dean feared. In fact, some of those things, Castiel was still causing himself.

“Dean?” Castiel whispered, frowning as he pulled Dean’s face to meet his eye. “Dean, don’t look so sad. I love you.”

“But it hurts,” Dean said.

Castiel inhaled sharply and pulled off him, looking down at Dean’s body like he’d find a mark.

Dean shook his head, almost laughing as he pulled Castiel back to him, collapsing his body on top of him, taking his hand in his again. “Not that kind of hurt.”

“Oh,” Castiel realised, blinking as he looked down, allowing Dean to roll his hips upward, controlling their frot for a bit before Castiel patched himself together enough to start his rhythm once more. “Tell me?”

Dean sighed, sinking into the satin while Castiel held him close, slowly returning that full-bodied tingly sensation to him. “It seems like...” Dean started, hating that he had to do this now, of all times. “Like you’re leaving too many open ends, you haven’t closed the case on everything you’re screwing with. Like the fact you’re still technically engaged.”

“Dean, don’t,” Castiel warned, snorting hard as he buried his head down against Dean’s shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“You asked.”

“Pretend I didn’t.”

Dean nodded, swallowing. He kissed Castiel’s neck, breathing out against him. “Keep talking. Tell me what happens after two years.”

Castiel smiled, and Dean felt relieved that the sourness was gone.

“Three years,” Castiel whispered. Then he laughed, wrapping his hand under Dean’s neck, smushing kisses to his throat. “We travel. Go everywhere. See tigers and monkeys and alpacas. Start a charity. Buy a house overseas. Spain, Portugal, I don’t care. Quelque part vous parlez la langue. Somewhere you’ll get too hot and take all your clothes off.”

Dean laughed, a bark which turned into a moan. God, the thought of being with Castiel that long made him feel so wonderful. “You’ll get a tan,” he mused.

“Mm,” Castiel murmured, nosing at his cheek. “Five years. I’ll say I love you every day, and I will mean it.”

Dean lifted their hands together to his lips, kissed their fingers. “Ten years,” he whispered to Castiel’s tight knuckles. “Tell me you’ll love me in ten years.”

“I will,” Castiel nodded, then grunted as his cock twitched, now lined up against Dean’s, pushing together, squashed between his weight and Dean’s hips.

“Then when you’re fifty,” Dean smiled, ruffling a hand through Castiel’s messy hair as he rocked above him, “you’ll still be young, twelve years from now.”

“The cats will be old,” Castiel countered.

Dean smiled. “Cats can live a long time.”

Castiel murmured and pressed a hurried kiss to Dean’s lips, then another, a string of biting, sucking kisses that made Dean think maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling saddened by this conversation. There was something missing from it, and that was certainty. They couldn’t know for sure what would happen in the future. Right now these words were nothing but empty promises, hope.

“Twenty years,” Dean gasped, mouth open around Castiel’s, holding his head to keep his lips close. “I’ll be fifty-five.”

“Still young,” Castiel laughed, and Dean groaned, grasping Castiel’s hips harder with his legs, pushing him against his cock.

“Still love me?”

Castiel nodded frantically. “I will, Dean.”

Dean could feel his orgasm nearing, and he twisted his hand in Castiel’s, wanting to hold it twice over, twice as often, harder, never let go. “Thirty years from now, gonna love me then?”

“Yes.” Castiel kissed him. “And in forty. We’ll live together, Dean. You’ll be so beautiful, you’ll wear tatty jeans and plaid shirts and your hair will go grey, and I’ll love you, Dean. So much.”

Dean’s eyes welled with tears for what had to be the hundredth time that night, and he made a gritty sound, rocking into Castiel, pleading with him. “Love me when we’re old,” he muttered. “The same way you love me now.”

Castiel kissed him, frowning deeply. “I’ll always love you, Dean,” he said, like Dean didn’t understand and Castiel was trying to _make_ him understand. “Always, Dean. Always, always. You’re everything to me.”

Dean tried so hard not to cry. Oh, he was fucking pathetic, but it hurt so _much_. It was a good hurt, a bad hurt, he didn’t know.

But he felt Castiel’s love, and he felt safe, and in the arms of the man he’d fallen for, Dean fell a little further.

He laughed as tears spilled from his eyes, because he was coming and crying at once, and Castiel was holding him, and holding his hand, and kissing him, and everything was suddenly so _perfect_. All hurt evaporated, and the world was him and Castiel and nothing else, nobody else. He was happy. He was happy and safe and loved.

“Shhhh, shhhhh, it’s okay, Dean,” Castiel soothed, stroking Dean’s face as he kept rocking, sliding through Dean’s semen. “Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not,” Dean smiled, knowing it was a pointless utterance. “Can you... hold me...”

Castiel did as he asked, wrapping both arms around Dean, letting go of his hand to do so. He rolled them both over, and Dean grunted as Castiel lay back and Dean lay atop him, straddling him. Castiel was still hard, and Dean began to kiss his lips, not yet moving to finish Castiel off.

Castiel broke the kiss, and he looked up at Dean with such concern in his eyes. “Dean, why are you crying?”

“I’m _not_ ,” Dean insisted, as a tear fell on Castiel’s cheek. “I’m fucking _not_.” He wrenched away, heart pounding. He threw himself face-down at the other end of the bed and put a pillow over his head, trying to muffle his own sob.

When he felt Castiel’s hands slide up his side, he let him get closer. When Castiel lay against him, Dean sniffed and lifted up the pillow to look at him. Castiel peered back, curious and so utterly non-judgemental that Dean allowed another tear to slide free. It felt relieving, like a pressure off him.

“I think I’m... scared,” Dean said, finally working it out. He looked away from Castiel and sank his face into the pillow.

“Scared of what?” Castiel asked, kissing Dean’s shoulder.

Dean swallowed, looking guiltily at Castiel’s fading erection through his tear-spread eyelashes. “The future? Getting old, maybe. Or even... _not_ getting old.”

Castiel kissed his shoulder again. “You think you won’t make it.”

Dean paused, then nodded. “Something or somebody’s gonna get me, Cas. I can feel it.”

Castiel didn’t offer him protection, knowing full well that he couldn’t this time. Dean silently thanked him, because he was sick of empty promises now.

“I want to be with you,” Dean said, letting another tear trickle and spread on the satin under his cheek. “But I’ve never planned for the future before. I live days not really thinking more than maybe a week in advance. But then - there’s you―” He met Castiel’s eyes, and swallowed. “You make me wanna, you know?”

Castiel smiled, nodded, kissed Dean’s shoulder.

“What hurts,” Dean took a trembling breath in, then let it out, “is not knowing for sure if I’ll ever get to hear you complain about arthritis or the missing tennis balls on your walker, or needing me to change your goddamn catheter.”

Castiel rubbed his lips side-to-side against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean sighed, enjoying that minute bit of contact.

Dean didn’t say it, but all he really wanted right now was a promise. But promises were something Castiel could not offer. Breaking them would be inevitable, and that knowledge was what made Dean sink his face fully into the pillow, wringing out another set of tears that he didn’t want Castiel to see.

They shared a few minutes in silence, and Dean eventually got to thinking how terrible a lover he was, leaving Castiel moments before his peak to go and sob into his bed sheets.

But Castiel tried to fix the hurt, and once again, Dean fell in love with him. Kisses on his shoulder, soft touches that ran up his lower back.

“God, Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean breathed, brow furrowing. “I’ve never done this before, okay? I don’t do this, I don’t break down like this. Especially not in bed.”

“You’ve never been this honest before, either,” Castiel reassured him, kissing the skin between his shoulder blades. “You’ve never been this intimate with someone. It’s not a bad thing, this helped you to have all your other feelings laid bare.”

Dean sighed, letting Castiel lie on top of his back, cock slipping to rest between his ass cheeks. Castiel started to rock there, and Dean smiled. “Oh, sure. Have at me, I’m all yours.”

Castiel made a sound of assent, and kissed Dean’s back again. Dean could feel him hardening once more, and some of his guilt alleviated.

“You have,” Castiel kissed Dean’s shoulders, “freckles on your back.”

Dean grunted, almost smiling. “I hate those things.”

Castiel paused his rocking, and Dean felt his surprise. When Castiel sank forward once more, sliding his erection between the tops of Dean’s spit-slicked thighs, he asked, “Dean, is there anything you’re _not_ self-conscious about?”

“If I tell you, what’re you gonna do, kiss it?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’ll kiss everything else. You’re beautiful, Dean.”

“Oh... oh Christ, don’t tell me that,” Dean gasped, embarrassment coiling an ugly vine inside him. Anxiety was a black oil and it took hold of his gut, and he felt so terrible. Lovemaking wasn’t meant to feel this way.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel hushed, a hand on Dean’s arm, covering over the X on his bicep, the other covering the bullet scar on his back. “Dean, you can cry if you want.”

“I don’t want to cry. I’m not a baby, it’s gross and I’m thirty-five _fucking_ years old.”

Castiel kissed his shoulders, erection bumping Dean’s scrotum. “You’re beautiful.”

“No.”

“Dean, you are beautiful. I love your freckles, I love the dimples above your buttocks. I love how soft you are.”

“Cas, please―”

“Your eyes are perfect. They remind me of summer.”

“I - I like my eyes,” Dean realised.

“Yes.” Castiel swept an arm under Dean’s chest, holding his neck like a choke-hold, not hurting him or crushing him at all. “Yes, and your eyelashes. Long and fluttery.”

Dean laughed, spreading his legs out a few inches, letting Castiel sink deeper between them, causing them both to groan.

“Your ears,” Castiel whispered. “They’re perfect. There are freckles on your ears, Dean.”

“Really?”

Castiel kissed his left ear, whispering, “Yes.”

He slipped his cock out from between Dean’s legs, and Dean squirmed, missing the contact. But Castiel started kissing his back, kissing and kissing.

“I didn’t kiss this side of you yet,” Castiel whispered, kissing each rib, every rib. “You have a gorgeous back.”

“It’s just a back.”

“And your feet are just feet,” Castiel countered. Dean felt his smile as he kissed his lower back, lips pressed into the soft muscle, moving further down. “You have freckles here, too.”

Dean hadn’t known that. He smiled a small smile, then it became a laugh, and he grinned into the pillow, all need for tears gone from him. Castiel had fixed it. The guilt was gone, the anxiety was gone. Dean was not ashamed.

Castiel kissed his ass slowly, deeply, _mmmmm_ , nose pressing into the fat. Dean bucked his hips backward, laughing again. He could hear the slap of skin as Castiel stroked himself, and that excited Dean, knowing parts of him that he never much appreciated were still worthy of enjoyment. He felt worth more because Castiel loved him.

Dean loved his eyelashes, and his eyes, and his hips and his nipples, but he loved so much more than that. He loved his hands, he loved his feet, and his shoulders, and his cheeks, and his tummy and his navel and the fingers curled in the sheets. He loved himself. _I love all of me more because you love all of me, and I love all of you._

Castiel had made him special.

When Castiel told him to roll over, Dean did it straight away. He sat up and he smiled at Castiel as Castiel came forward, hand on his cock, kneeling up so his crotch was at the same height as Dean’s face.

Dean parted his lips, eyes on Castiel. “Gonna come?”

Castiel nodded. “All over your face. You’re so pretty, Dean.”

Dean flushed with colour, and he knew it looked good on him. It wasn’t shame, it was pleasure. If only he could have learned that earlier.

Castiel took hold of the back of Dean’s head, stroked him. Dean held Castiel’s ass, his hips, and licked his lips as he waited for Castiel’s orgasm to arrive. Castiel told him things, told him things that made him feel good. _You’re more precious to me than anything._ Dean watched Castiel’s face, adoring the way he looked at him when he said those things.

He watched Castiel’s expression change as climax neared: he gasped, his eyes almost closing; a healthy glow rose through him, showing up on his already-flushed skin. Dean kept his mouth open, and he received spurt after spurt of Castiel’s come, warm, sinking over his face. It fell in strings upon his tongue, and he waited until Castiel squeezed the very last droplet out against Dean’s lip before he closed his mouth and tasted it.

“How is it?” Castiel asked, caressing Dean’s cheek, collecting up spilled semen that had missed Dean’s mouth.

Dean squinted on one side of his face, overtaken by the tang. He swallowed, feeling the warmth travel his throat. “Salty. Warm ‘n slidey. Kinda bleughhh.” He smiled up at Castiel, kissing the tip of his cock where he still held it beside Dean’s lips. “I like it.”

“I know you do,” Castiel said, a smirk on the corner of his lips. Dean watched him put his thumb into his own mouth, sucking away all that had been left on Dean’s cheek. He made a hum of acceptance, verifying Dean’s verdict as fair.

Dean sat still and waited for Castiel to get the moist towelette he reached for. When he set a fresh perfumed wipe against Dean’s cheek, Dean watched Castiel’s face as he cleaned him up. He still had that bare passion in his eyes, careful and loving, and he touched Dean’s face like he was breakable and delicate, but still turned his chin with decisive movements, knowing he would follow.

“Good,” Castiel said, as he finished, and wiped down his own hands. “Your face is clean now.”

Dean grinned. “I gotta rinse my mouth out before I sleep, though; no offence.”

Castiel smirked, inclining his head. “Me too. My tongue tastes like your ass.”

Dean chuckled, sitting with his hands draped over his parted thighs, Castiel still kneeling in front of him to clean him.

A moment passed.

“So... you like my butt freckles, huh?”

Castiel laughed, ducking his head. “I do.”

Dean beamed.

They sat quietly for a little while, Castiel spending the time cleaning Dean’s hands too, then moving on to wipe down the lumpy semen from his abdomen.

“Hey, Cas...” Dean started. When Castiel met his eye, Dean put all his bravery together, and said what he wanted outright: “I want to lie in your arms, and have you hug me from behind. Maybe, uh, you lean on the bed.” He thumbed at the wooden headboard behind him. “And you just hug me, and talk to me, and kiss me a bit, and we do that until we fall asleep.”

Castiel blinked, smiled, nodded, then looked down at where he now wiped Dean’s perineum with the towelette. It felt weird to be wiped there, but Dean lifted his hips to let him do it.

Dean smirked, feeling good. “God, I’m all excited now,” he muttered.

“About being held?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Butterflies in my stomach and everything.”

“Well, then,” Castiel said, tossing the used towelette over the side of the bed, “you’d better go and find some mouthwash quickly, or those butterflies might fly away.”

Dean laughed, scooting forward to set a fast and pushy kiss on Castiel’s lips. “Nope,” he said, pulling away. “Butterflies are here to stay.”

He went and got his mouthwash, then rinsed down in the shower, drying off quickly.

But by the time he crawled against Castiel’s chest, sitting to his right, their legs side-by-side, and Castiel’s arms were draped around him, and the sheets were pulled up to cover their bodies, Dean was in a different state of mind. It wasn’t all butterflies; he had more serious things to think about.

“If everything doesn’t go the way I think it will, and by some miracle my life doesn’t grab my ankles and pull me into a grave,” Dean said, as Castiel stroked his hair, “then I want you to promise me something.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s ear. “Okay. What is it?”

“Don’t... Don’t do to me what you did to Daphne.”

Castiel was quiet for a bit, and Dean sensed his discomfort, but was reassured by the slow rub Castiel’s hand gave his bicep, and the kiss he put on his cheek. Dean knew there was more to Castiel and Daphne’s relationship than straight-up infidelity, but Castiel probably got what he meant, and he didn’t say a word to overcomplicate it. “I promise.”

Dean lifted their entwined fingers and kissed them. “Thank you. And―”

“Yes?”

Dean turned his head, so he could see Castiel’s face. He rested his cheek on Castiel’s shoulder, and he smiled up at him. “Just that... you’re beautiful.”

Castiel paused, frozen, then he smiled. Then he smiled a lot, and he looked down at Dean, and kissed him from the side, at a strange and pleasant angle.

When he pulled away, he was grinning, eyes gleaming with a surprised satisfaction. But he didn’t say anything.

Dean had made him speechless, and that made Dean very, very proud.

✿

Dean woke up floating in a blaze of sunlight so bright it hurt, even though his eyelids. His shoulders were bare, and he felt the absolute warmth of the golden light that cast its heat through the skylight above.

When he opened his eyes, he had to close them again, feeling a burn that shot right to the back of his head. The skylight was directly above, and the sun was directly above, and it was piercing like a laser.

But he smiled, because it was so utterly peaceful. He could even imagine lying on a beach on some island, hearing the slow creak of a boat or an untethered floating dock. Not so much a vacation as a different life.

He sighed and rolled onto his side, towards where the weight of Cas’ body was. Dean didn’t open his eyes to see him yet, still seeing blotches and sparkles behind his lids.

This place was warm as anything.

After they’d lain together, Dean and Castiel had shared the very last of their secrets. There were omissions to those secrets, and Dean knew he still had thoughts reserved, but they had been open. More open than Dean had ever been in his life.

Dean was too in love to ever give Castiel up. He was well and truly addicted.

But the uncertainty of it made him ache, not knowing if he would ever get his next hit, not knowing if he’d be allowed to prolong how good being with Castiel felt. Even now, breathing in deep and inhaling Castiel’s scent, testing the slide of his bed sheets, soaking up the burning, burning heat of the mid-morning sun, Dean still craved something. One thing.

A promise, that was all he really wanted. But he wouldn’t say it. Even after all their safe, intimate talks, and the comforting cuddles and all the kisses they’d shared, Dean couldn’t man up enough to tell Cas he wanted to get married.

Letting out a breath, Dean opened his eyes.

Castiel’s eyes were already open. He blinked at Dean, blue eyes stunning, gorgeous in the sunlight that came from above.

They didn’t speak a word.

Dean smiled, feeling every bit as loved under Castiel’s gaze as he ever did before. He inched his fingers forward, and he traced a fingertip down the centre of Castiel’s forehead, between his eyebrows. His frown was absent, but Dean liked that part of his face with or without it.

He smoothed across an eyebrow, still holding Castiel’s gaze across the space between their pillows. Fingertips caressed Castiel’s cheekbone, high and rounded under Dean’s touch.

He stroked Castiel’s lips with a fingertip. Each groove in them was impeccable, cut there by an artisan sculptor, making an angel’s mouth, an angel’s smile.

And when Castiel smiled, it made Dean forget every worry. Forget the future. Everything he loved was here, smiling under his finger, against his hand.

Castiel’s hair seemed dark brown in the sun, even turning gold in places. Dean spread his fingers back through it - it was hot, it burned him, locks separating as he combed it. He ran his fingers over Castiel’s scalp twice, each time enjoying the slow blink Castiel gave. If he were a cat, he’d be purring.

Dean trailed his thumb downward, dipping into the hollows of Castiel’s eyes. Castiel closed his lids, and Dean touched his eyelashes. Soft, small.

He touched the wrinkles under Castiel’s eyes. Old and tired and crinkled with happiness.

Dean touched his chin, stubble and a firm diamond jaw. It was pulled tight at the sides, crows feet beside his lips as he smiled. Dean touched his smile.

Dean felt love.

✿

They lay for an indeterminable amount of time. Were it not for the fact that Castiel’s stomach was rumbling and Dean was late to open up shop, they would have stayed all day.

They still didn’t speak, not wanting to disturb the words that still hung around the room from last night. _I want to be there for you no matter what, Dean. Anywhere your life takes you, I want to be beside you. Apart, maybe. The future is, as of yet, unwritten. But be thinking of me._

Castiel helped Dean dress, lay him back against the bed and put his jeans on for him. No underwear, because Dean liked it like that. Even without his lingerie, he was pretty, because it was written on his skin by Castiel’s kisses. _I will love you no matter how you look. I will always see you as my angel. You’re made of light. There are no flaws in light._

Dean put on Castiel’s tie for him. Castiel watched his hands, and they had to stop halfway through because they accidentally started kissing.

That went on for quite some time. A prolonged accident, maybe.

Castiel gave Dean the pudding from his fridge that he hadn’t eaten last night, and Castiel himself finished up the Chinese take-out from both boxes. The first words to break the silence between them were, “I guess sex makes you ravenous, huh.” Dean muttered the words while showing Castiel how to use chopsticks.

Castiel caught Dean’s nose with the chopsticks, and after laughing, Dean confiscated them. Castiel pinched a buttock in punishment, and Dean confiscated his food too, simply to provoke Castiel into slapping his ass.

Eventually they straggled out of the apartment around eleven in the morning, and Dean had to tuck Castiel’s dress shirt into his slacks on the way to the elevator, since Dean had put all his clothes on in the wrong order and they’d gotten somewhat distracted.

Standing together in the elevator, they watched their reflections.

Dean had never looked better in his entire life. He was a healthy weight now. His glasses didn’t do a thing to hide the darkness behind his eyes, because there was none. His clothes made his skin seem radiant - but then again, that could have been the after-sex glow. His smile was permanent.

Castiel was smiling too. He stood tall, his slump eradicated by his confidence. His clothes were worn carelessly and messily, his hair went uncombed, his stubble unshaven, and the look suited him. He felt sexy. He felt sexy and beautiful, and that feeling was all down to how Dean made him feel.

Castiel had never felt a desire to be told he was handsome, and had often gone out of the way to avoid being complimented before, because compliments were hard for him to deal with. But praise from Dean, compliments from Dean, they were not difficult for him. They were easy, and they felt good.

When Castiel wanted to be alone, he wanted Dean with him.

Dean was his exception to the rule. Every rule. All of them.

Halfway down the building, with the warning of a single look, they fell into each other, and subjected themselves to another prolonged accident. Their mouths made shapes on each other that were almost words but not quite. Hands were eager, hands were bold.

The elevator doors pinged open, and they collapsed apart, hands over their mouths to wipe away evidence as business people stood in bewilderment, waiting to enter the lift.

Dean cleared his throat and left the elevator car first, and Castiel followed, eyes down.

But he was smiling.

He took Dean’s hand as they walked the marble foyer. They strode together, fingers locked proudly, and they smiled. They looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes, and they laughed.

Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off Dean, all the way down to the main road, which rumbled with Saturday’s pre-midday traffic. Dean shone in the sun, hair bustled by the faint summer breeze. He moved loosely, relaxed. Calm and serene.

They had made love last night, and every step they took together reminded them both of that fact. They were _in love_. It was a real feeling that real people felt, and they both felt it for each other. It astounded Castiel as equally as it made him feel delight. He was part of the human race now, experiencing the emotion that every song was about; he was now living in his prime.

He supposed he ought to feel completed by it, but that was not what he and Dean had. They did not have a completion, they had an extension.

A better half? No.

A second. A second soul, a partner. An equal.

Dean gestured at the streetcar that dinged its bell at the next crossing, and he sighed, turning to Castiel. “That’s my ride,” he said, voice slightly settled by road dust and heat in the air. “Want me to come over tonight? I’ll bring dinner.”

Castiel smiled, leaning in to kiss Dean’s cheek. “Every night, Dean.”

Dean beamed, squeezing Castiel’s hand. “We’ll see, cowboy. Now, let go of me, I’ve got a shop to get to.”

“And I have paperwork to do,” Castiel nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

Dean backed away, waving as he let go of Castiel’s hand. “Bye.”

“I love you.”

Dean’s whole face burst into a grin, still backing away. “You too, Cas.”

He turned and ran, hurrying to get to the tram before he missed it. Castiel put his hands in his pockets and watched him go.

Castiel had paperwork to do, that was true. But he also had an engagement to break off, because he couldn’t keep going on like this. Being with Dean last night had made him realise: being with Dean was now-or-never. Castiel’s father may only have a few months to live, but Dean’s time was uncertain. It was that uncertainty that led Castiel to believe he had the power to change it all.

He walked to work, still in the headspace of his plans.

He’d planned a year ahead, a time which had narrowed to four months, with the intention to divorce Daphne once his father had passed. Daphne had tentatively agreed, on that long afternoon they spent talking under the shade of the wooden pond gazebo. But it was all so messy now. Four months had become one day overnight, and Castiel decided he no longer had time to dawdle.

He was going to take the advice Dean gave at the very start: screw his father, screw his father’s plan. If Castiel could buy a whole street of shops and not have his father complain, then he could offer a promise to the man he loved, and his father would let it happen, the same way he let Daphne take over Divine Power.

There was little real bravery in it, Castiel knew that. His father was a broken man, the force in him had crumbled. But the fact that Castiel _could_ do it made him determined.

He could take for himself. Take things not given. Take, because he needed. It was beyond _want_. There was a life in his hands, and it wasn’t a plant’s, or a child’s, nor any other person’s. It was his own. He would care for himself.

If being with Dean would have them both cared for for the rest of their lives, then who was Castiel to pass up that chance?


	26. In Motion

Castiel’s board meeting went as well as could be expected; Meg was snarky, Daphne was sensible. The Montmorency family driver, Crowley, came up in the minutes a few times, and when the meeting was over, Castiel squinted at his notes, wondering why the man was even still employed. As far as he could see, all he did was insult people and drive too fast.

“Still here?” Daphne’s voice rung in the small meeting room, feminine and quite lovely.

Castiel glanced up at her, pressing a smile between his lips. “Yes. Yes, sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

Mostly he’d been thinking about Dean. He wanted to buy Dean flowers, or maybe grow them himself. Start a garden of his own, with the full intention to someday share it with Dean.

Maybe a house.

Maybe an estate, a whole estate, with a duckpond and a willow tree.

He stared at the way the sun coloured the meeting desk with glaring golden rectangles, and he imagined a dining table that would someday do the same thing. Vases of flowers would sit on it, and Castiel would arrange new ones daily, a gift for Dean.

A touch on Castiel’s shoulder made him jump, and he looked up into Daphne’s face, seeing her acute frown. “What is it?” she asked him, letting her hand trail down the shoulder of his suit jacket.

“I still have another eight-hundred-thousand dollars in my spending account,” Castiel said to her, repeating earlier thoughts for her benefit. “I want to invest it, I hate seeing it sit there garnering nothing but bank interest.”

Daphne pulled out a wheeled office chair and sat down, fingers laced together in her lap. “I thought you already did this. You told me you bought something. Those tiny stores near my house?”

Castiel nodded, setting down his papers and leaning back, making his chair judder as it adjusted. “I did. I was also thinking about starting a charity, actually,” he added, smiling at his twiddling thumbs. “For endangered animals and plants. Or for orphanages. Or for people with cancer. Or maybe for people with― Um. People with HIV. People who can’t afford treatment or medicine. Perhaps a charity which donates to all of those things.”

“Aren’t there enough of those around?”

Castiel nodded slowly. “But none of them are mine.”

Daphne hummed, a shiny, freshly-manicured nail tap-tap-tapping on the surface of the board table. “It’s a nice thought, but why? Why not just donate?”

Castiel turned his eyes up to look at the ceiling. “My father wants a grandchild. The only things in this world I see as my children are the small lives I groom by my bedside. Pansies. Somehow I don’t think my father would see them the same way.”

“I don’t understand―”

“I’d like to raise a business. A charity. Something useful for the world, the way my mother wanted to see the family fortune spent. My father wants to see my mother again, but I feel it would take a miracle to make him see that not everything about my mother could be replicated in offspring. Sometimes I―”

Castiel leaned over the desk, folding his arms as he fought down a rush of emotion. “Sometimes I think he wouldn’t let the doctors treat him because my mother died of cancer, and he wants to join her, wherever she went.”

He sighed, shaking his head, watching the glorious daylight shine off the table. “I want to give him _something_ before he gives in. Maybe seeing my mother’s dream come true could be what he needs.”

“Do you think he’d hold on afterwards?”

Castiel turned his eyes to see his fiancée looking back, hair hooked behind her ear, earring catching the light the same way the table did. “I don’t know what he’ll do. His sickness is beyond reversal; he doesn’t have long left. But I don’t want to let this chance go by untaken.”

Daphne’s eyes twinkled, entranced by his words. “You are a wonderful man, Castiel.”

Castiel sniffed sharply, eyes wide as he looked back at Daphne.

Daphne laughed, chin turning down. “I hope you don’t mind. I was under the impression you preferred that name.”

Castiel blinked a few times, turning away to the window as he stood up. “Um, I’m not sure,” he said, walking until he stood before the cityscape, vision wavering in the rising heat of day. He locked his hands behind his back. “Usually only Dean calls me that.”

Daphne stood beside him, arm brushing his as they looked out towards the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, where the blue water met the sky on the blurred horizon, red monument rising from the sunny haze.

“It’s special to you,” Daphne said, calculating. “Your name, I mean. Cas-tiel.”

Castiel licked his lips, gaze falling to the carpet. “It’s special because it’s the name Dean uses.”

“I won’t use it if you don’t want,” Daphne said, kindly, as she rested a hand around Castiel’s elbow. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel nodded, trying not to feel a little violated. It wasn’t her fault, he said to himself. Dean had become so precious to him that anything outside of how _Dean_ made him feel was as stale as the foyer of his own apartment building.

Daphne took a breath, still having more to say. “I haven’t seen you much these past few weeks. You drop by for your meetings and then disappear. And I _know_ you’ve been avoiding me.”

Castiel smiled guiltily, half his face scrunched up as he looked across at Daphne. “There are so many TV shows in the world in need of consumption. And I needn’t limit myself to English-language presentations, either. I may not speak French well, but I can understand it perfectly.”

Daphne huffed. “It’s awfully flattering to know you’ve avoided me so your shows can rule your life,” she said, with a soft laugh. Sarcastic, but friendly nevertheless.

Castiel put his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I am sorry,” he said, truthfully. There was a seashell in his pocket, and he wasn’t sure where it came from. Maybe Dean had put it there.

“You can make it up to me, you know...”

“I can?” He thumbed the shell, feeling the ridges of it, the smooth dip in its centre. He could smell Dean’s sweat on his shirt collar.

“Well?”

Castiel glanced at her. “Hm?”

“Emanuel,” she said, with a particularly withering sigh. “I would like to go out to lunch today.”

Castiel bit his tongue. “I’m busy.”

“Every time I suggest a date you say you’re busy.”

“I am,” Castiel said, despising how dark the words felt in his mouth. “I do have other things to do, I’m not watching TV _all_ the time.”

“I understand you have a private life, Emanuel, but once you and I are living in the same place, there won’t be this separation. Unless you and I spend time together, it’s all going to come as one very big shock.”

Castiel didn’t know how to react.

Daphne’s expression softened, and Castiel felt her slipping into her maternal settings. “Is this about Dean? Did you see him last night?”

Castiel immediately felt trapped, blocked into a corner. “I... don’t...”

Daphne didn’t know. She didn’t _know_ that Dean was Castiel’s lover, or quite how deeply in love he was.

She didn’t know that Castiel couldn’t bear not to see Dean every day, that he couldn’t afford to let Dean go a day without him, in case he relapsed and let his demons take him again.

Castiel knew he was being too cautious, that Dean would do fine without him, but Castiel was equally addicted. _He_ couldn’t go a day without Dean, a day without feeling the weightlessness his kisses allowed him.

Daphne didn’t know that between the two of them, between her and Dean, Dean was the one Castiel wanted to marry.

"Emanuel,” Daphne said said, slowly this time, gentle and soothing. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Castiel slowly slid his hands out of his pocket. He couldn’t look at Daphne, in case he gave away the secret.

Maybe giving away the secret wasn’t so bad. He could sabotage what he and Daphne had, and that might even work out better. His father would be furious, but Castiel would rather that than to drag out this shadow in his life, the line between what he wanted and what everyone else wanted.

“Last night, Dean and I...”

Daphne didn’t interrupt, which Castiel realised he was half-hoping she would do.

So he continued, “Not just last night. For two weeks. For two weeks, he and I have spent some of our nights... together.”

He slowly lifted his eyes to meet Daphne’s discerning squint. “You mean you’ve been watching shows with him?”

“Yes. Lots of them. But also in the... Biblical sense?”

Daphne’s heartbeat leapt into in her throat, Castiel actually saw a pulse. Her shock did not reach her face, neither did it fault her voice as she said, “You’ve been sleeping with him.”

Castiel’s breath gushed from his mouth as he turned away, something akin to self-reproach like meltwater in his stomach. He lifted a hand to brush his hair back from his face, stressed by the way Daphne was silent, her judgement filling the boardroom like a toxic radiation.

“Yes,” he forced out, starting to pace the floor, walking through the sunbeams that the thin skylights left on the carpet. “Yes, I’ve been sleeping with him. It’s good, it’s important. It keeps him safe, he needs someone to look after him for once, don’t you see?”

“To me that sounds like―”

“I don’t want it to stop,” Castiel said, staring imploringly at Daphne. “Please, do anything, but don’t tell me I need to stop seeing him. I’m over what my father thinks, Daphne. What exists between you and I is nothing more than platonic friendship for me, and I can’t enter a marriage with you while feeling this way for Dean.”

A smile flickered on his lips. “He told me last night, we lay there... We lay and he had his back against my chest, he was listening for my heart―”

Castiel couldn’t believe he was saying this aloud. He’d stopped walking, closing his eyes, mind lost to the memory. Dean had turned the light off, and without the electric glow the moonlight had been nearly grey; their naked bodies had basked in its somber outlines, and they’d been warm from each other, sodden in soft pillow talk and provisionary whispers about the future.

Castiel gulped, speaking shakily to Daphne. “He told me... maybe he and I would someday have children, however it comes to pass. By surrogate parenting, adoption, I don’t know. But he said to me...” Castiel’s grin came out breathy, his eyes filling with tears for a moment as he looked across at Daphne. “He’d be Daddy to our children. I’d be Papa, and they’d - they’d call him Daddy.”

“That’s... that’s what you want?” Daphne asked him, almost a whisper.

Castiel lifted his arms in a wide shrug, sunlight grazing his skin. He couldn’t stop smiling. “I have no idea! It’s in the future, it could be years from now. Being with him, I see... I see something else. Something totally and completely independent to how I saw my life going a matter of months ago. For once I actually have the motivation to follow the plans I thought were already crushed. I thought I was old, I thought my time was gone already.”

“It’s not,” Daphne said, tucking her hair behind her ear, smiling unexpectedly. “Emanuel, you are still good for at least another thirty years, honestly.”

“I know!” Castiel beamed, enjoying his smile, feeling it fill his face, brighter than the sun. “I know, I know - he makes me feel like I would live forever. I see why my father gave up, without my mother here. If I lost Dean I’d be the same. So, I need to make my life work. I need to _show_ my father that I’m holding on for someone I love, that _Dean_ is what makes me happy. I know my father loves me, I know he’ll still love me if I tell him I cannot marry you.”

“Is... Is that what’s happening now? Call off the wedding?”

Castiel shrugged again, tilting his head. “It’s up to you. Dean and I will be together either way.”

Daphne rolled out the nearest chair and sank into it, fingertips steepled as she swung herself to face Castiel. “Were you ever actually planning on telling me?”

“What, that I’m having an affair with Dean?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Castiel said, knowing his smile was out of place. “I was prepared to lie to you my entire life, should our marriage never come to be annulled.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes, smiling back at him, which was somewhat unnerving. Then she promptly stood up, walked up to him, and slapped him in the face.

He recoiled, bumping into the side of the desk. As he looked up, wrinkling his sore cheek, he sighed. “I deserved that.”

Daphne nodded slowly. “I hope Dean knows how good a liar you are. It’s compulsive, isn’t it?”

Castiel considered that. “I lie for a lot of reasons. So does he. But I think we’re both done now.”

Daphne flexed her fingers.

Castiel smiled at her awkwardly, and after a few seconds staring at him, her lips twitched, and she hung her head, shaking it. “Hopeless,” she muttered, on a small laugh. “Completely pointless, this whole ordeal was a dead loss.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Castiel said. “I think I at least owe you lunch.”

Daphne didn’t answer straight away. She thought for a little while, lips tightened.

And then she turned to Castiel, with yet another fresh smile on her face. “How do you think Crowley would react if we gave him a job on short notice?”

✿

Sam picked up his cellphone after the second ring, still tapping his pen against his textbook. “Hello?” He paused, hearing the fumbling voices at the other end.

“ _Sam, it’s me._ ”

“Oh, hey, Cas.”

“ _Sam. I. I need to ask you something important._ ”

“Uh, all right? Shoot.”

“ _Are you free this afternoon?_ ”

Sam stopped tapping his pen on his textbook, glancing down at his notes. Then he started tapping the pen again. “Not really.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“How important is it that I’m free this afternoon?”

“ _Very. It’s that, it’s... Um. It’s important. And there’s actually something else._ ”

“Out with it, Cas,” Sam grinned. The guy was kind of funny, Sam had to admit.

“ _I need to ask your permission._ ”

“For what?”

Castiel was quiet for a bit. Through the phone, Sam heard the thump of a car door, and the soft chatter of a woman’s voice. “ _I’m going to take Dean out to my father’s estate this afternoon. It’s a surprise. And I want you there. Actually, I want everybody there._ ”

“Everybody who?”

“ _Your - our - family. Charlie and her girlfriend, and Gabriel, and Benny and his daughter._ ”

Sam leaned back in his chair, and his back popped in relief, having sat hunched for a few hours. “Well, I can’t stop you taking Dean on a weekend retreat, but I can’t vouch to say everyone else is free. I’m actually kinda busy too - I can’t really afford to take time off, I’ve got exams coming up.”

“ _It’s not a whole weekend. Just the afternoon. If you need to be, you’ll be back by tonight._ ”

Sam ran his fingers against his scruffy jaw, humming. “What’s this for, anyway?”

“ _A picnic._ ”

“Really?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel said. “ _But there’s another thing. Which I need to ask permission for._ ”

Combing his hand back through his hair, Sam felt an immediate trepidation. “Uhhhh.”

“ _It’s... I mean... I need to ask if I can―_ ”

“Cas.”

“ _I want to propose to Dean._ ”

Sam started to smile. “What, like... marriage?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel said, with a breath of relief.

Sam’s smile slipped away. “You’re... You’re not kidding.”

“ _Um. No._ ”

Sam grasped his mouth under his hand, almost squashing his jaw. This was unexpected. Maybe not out of the blue, but it was... It was too _new_ , too fast, too sudden and too _much_.

“Cas, are you... sure? Because Daphne―”

“ _Daphne and I have broken off our engagement. To be fair, we were barely engaged in the first place. It was more of a temporary arrangement to please my father._ ”

“Is that not important any more, pleasing your father?” Sam asked, tartly.

“ _It is. But he will never get exactly what he wants from me, so I’m going to offer him the next best thing._ ”

“Which... is marrying my brother,” Sam intoned. “ _Marrying_ him. Getting married. Forever.”

Castiel made a happy, smiley noise. “ _Yes._ ”

Sam’s breath burst from his mouth, eyebrows jumping. “Wow.”

“ _Obviously it would be more than a ceremonial thing. It would be a properly legal thing,_ ” Castiel added, breathily. “ _A same-sex marriage as opposed to a civil union. And there would be a prenuptial agreement. But that’s all later - right now, I need - I_ need _to do this._ ”

Sam nodded, one hand over his face. He wasn’t quite panicking, but neither was he taking this in his stride. He could see it happening in his mind’s eye, Dean holding Castiel’s hand and throwing a bouquet over his shoulder in a shower of confetti, Charlie being the first to grab it out of the air. Dean’s smile would be massive, and his suit would be pristine, and from then on, his life would be different.

In the story of Sam’s life, this part kind of felt like it jumped the shark. Just a bit.

“Cas... I’m not sure this is right,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dean isn’t― He’s not the kind of guy who, you know, _gets_ married.”

Castiel took a breath, then let it out. “ _There are a lot of things about Dean that you don’t know. Like― One is that he craves physical comfort._ ”

“Hugs. Yeah,” Sam glanced to his open bedroom door, seeing Lucifer carrying her kittens around the middle of the apartment. “Yeah, he told me about that the other day.”

“ _Another thing is that he sees what you and Sarah have on a daily basis, and he craves that, too._ ”

Sam frowned, eyes turning to the floor, where his papers were spread like a second carpet. “Seriously? He told you that?”

“ _He has told me a lot of things. And he loves me, Sam. He―_ ” Castiel broke off to smile here, Sam heard his voice crack, “ _He loves me, and I love him, and I want to be with him. He’s my family, and I can’t believe I’ve been missing him all my life._ ”

Sam shook his head in wonder. There were parallels in what Castiel said, parallels to the way his and Sarah’s relationship had come about. Sam had known when he was in love, and upon hearing those words from Castiel, he was astounded to note that Castiel was a man in love. Sam could hear his shaky grins.

“But that doesn’t answer the question,” Sam said, wiggling his foot in agitation. “Are you sure he’d say yes?”

Castiel paused for a bit.

Then, he said, “ _Sam, tell me something._ ”

“Tell you what?”

“ _Do you think Dean would turn me down?_ ”

He didn’t ask it as if he was unsure. He asked because Sam already knew the answer, and Castiel already knew the answer, and was simply drawing Sam’s attention to that fact.

“No,” Sam said, smiling slightly. “No, I think he’d say yes.”

Castiel didn’t need to agree, nor make any kind of smug sound. Sam could hear the smile, hear the hand over Castiel’s watering eyes, his simmering collared joy.

“God. Okay. All right then,” Sam said, shaking his head as he grinned and stood up. “Picnic this afternoon. Studying can wait.” He stretched, battling a yawn. “I guess I’d - better get ready.”

“ _Does that mean you give your permission for me to ask Dean’s hand in marriage?_ ”

Sam laughed, a bolt that he felt all the way to his toes, and he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, Cas,” he said. “Oh my god.”

“ _Thank you, Sam,_ ” Castiel sighed, laughing weakly. “ _I honestly thought you might’ve tried to kill me with something. Hence me doing this over the phone, I’m sorry._ ”

Sam wheezed with his first finger and thumb pressed into his eyes, pushing back the tears of laughter, and an odd satisfaction. “Nah,” he said, straightening up. “I only bring out the shotgun if you break his heart.”

“ _...Noted._ ”

✿

Charlie burst into the apartment five minutes later, and ran into Sam’s room without knocking.

“Oh my god, sorry,” she gasped, running back out. “Nice boxers!”

Sam gritted his teeth as he pulled on black suit pants and a clean white shirt, his finest. He met Charlie in the living room, smiling at her as she let Lucifer out of her arms and the cat trotted off.

“You heard?” Charlie asked, her eyes shining with manic glee. “Oh my _god_.”

Sam smiled again, still combing his hair. “It was a pretty weird phone call.”

“Daphne called me,” Charlie said, starting to pace around. “There’s a limo coming at one-thirty, I need to run home and find something to wear.” She screwed up her face, squashing her cheeks between her hands. “Ohmy gob,” she mouthed, mushing her words together. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

The phone rang, and Charlie ran to get it before Sam could even untangle the comb from his hair.

“Wesson residence! Sarah! Oh my god, I need to borrow your dress, the nice one with the blue ribbon thing! It goes with my hair!”

Sam smiled fondly, watching Charlie flap her hands and squeal into the telephone, almost shouting, “I know I know I know! I’m so excited! I can’t believe it, can you believe it? They’re gonna get _marrieeed_.”

Charlie seemed about as bright as a firecracker, eyebrows raised, cheeks reddened at their tops. “Yeah, okay. When does your shift end?” Sam glanced at the clock, humming a dull note to himself. “Six?” Charlie looked horrified. “Quit your job! We need you at the _Montmorency Estate_!”

Sam went and got himself two silk neckties from the bedroom, holding them both up to Charlie so she could pick one for him. She pointed at the ruby-red one, still with a terrified expression on her face as she listened to Sarah’s voice through the phone.

“We’ll tell the limo driver to pick you up last, would that work?” She spread her arms in exasperation, making she sleeves of her hoodie fall over her hands. “Okay? Okay good. Thank god, I thought we’d have to do without you.” She smiled again, giving Sam a wink and circled fingers to indicate everything was a-okay. “All righty, sister, we’ll see you at thirteen-forty-five. Don’t keep us waiting.”

She hung up and started jumping up and down. “Aaaaah!”

Sam bumped his eyebrows, smirking at her. If he was the jumping kind of person, he might well have been doing the same thing.

✿

Gabriel sat on the bench opposite Déesse Noire, staring across the street at the closed restaurant. He knew he was pining after something long gone, but he felt like a kicked dog, and there was still a hand out there willing to feed him. Except that hand bit, and he had to pay it.

It was one big, colossal wreck. And he didn’t even know if he still had a job. Sure, he’d quit, but given that Kali had employed him as head waiter at her restaurant, and _he_ paid Kali out of hours for things infinitely more fun than waiting tables, it made it tricky. He needed that job. And he needed _her_.

It really, really destroyed him inside to be so aware that no matter how much he felt for her, it had always been a fantasy - and one he couldn’t afford, at that. It wasn’t just his pocket paying for what he’d had with her, it was his whole entire soul.

He felt emptier than the chip packet that wafted along in the gutter beside his feet.

His phone rang, and he sniffed, frowning. He put a candy corn in his mouth to soothe his nerves, then dug around in his jacket to find his cellphone.

He screen told him it was Castiel calling. Or Emanuel. Both. Same guy. Liar, cheater. He was all wrapped up in this big mess, and was apparently no worse for it than Gabriel himself, if the other night’s dinner scene and the local news shows were anything to go on.

Gabriel sighed as he flicked open the phone. “What do you want,” he snapped.

“ _Oh,_ ” Castiel said.

“‘Oh’ what?”

“ _‘Oh’, as in, I just realised you blame me for Kali leaving you._ ”

Gabriel scoffed. “Chuh. I bet all the ladies _love_ that sharp mind of yours, pretty-boy.”

“ _You should know... You’re not the only one who fell prey to her charm. I really don’t want to sound rude, but you did get off lightly._ ”

“In what sense is _this_ light?!” Gabriel demanded, leaning forward over his thighs, almost crushing the packet of candy corn in his fist. “I feel like a fire truck drove through my guts!”

“ _She didn’t tear you down, Gabriel. Your dignity is intact―_ ”

“Oh, oh, sure,” Gabriel interrupted. “Like I had any dignity in the first place, not compared to all her other clients. What, she usually goes for financial bigshots like your Pop, so where do I stand on that ladder, huh? She probably _pitied_ me.”

Castiel was quiet, and Gabriel flicked his hand in a silent accede of his own point.

“ _My father,_ ” Castiel said, “ _has four months to live. She broadcast the history of his sex life with her, his financial records, his medical issues, not to mention his personal fallibilities, and she_ ruined _what was left of him. I will admit he had it coming, but that does not stop me wondering what kind of person she had to be to do that kind of thing. And at the end, she was rewarded for her ‘services to justice’. Not punished._ ”

“She’s a wily little thing, ain’t she,” Gabriel said, smugly.

Castiel sighed. “ _Gabriel, she usually charged a thousand dollars for every session._ ”

Gabriel froze. “Yeah, right,” he said, like he wasn’t flipping his lid.

“ _Minimum,_ ” Castiel added.

“Sh... She was charging me four hundred.”

“ _She liked you,_ ” Castiel said, resignation in his voice. “ _It pains me to say it. And even so, don’t take that as a motivation to go after her. She’s dangerous and cunning, and eventually she will find a way to tear your life apart. I don’t know what she could get out of you, but I imagine she takes a certain level of pride in the destruction she causes._ ”

Gabriel swallowed, scuffing his toe on the sidewalk, leaning back on the bench. Cars rushed past him, all with places to go, and he just sat.

“ _Anyway, this is not why I called._ ”

“Well, why did you?” Gabriel asked, not yet finding it in him to forgive Castiel, but easing up on the hostile vibes for the time being.

“ _There’s something I’m planning on doing today. As one of Dean’s family members, I want you to be present when I do it._ ”

“Ooh, is this some kind of kinky sex thing? Gonna boink Deano while we all watch?”

Castiel squeaked until he coughed.

Gabriel laughed. “Okay,” he sniggered, “Okay, I’m done, that was my revenge. What do you need us ‘family members’ for? I’m flattered, by the way, that you think I’m so close to your boyfriend. If you count putting a live worm in his bed once as being familial, then you hit your mark.”

“ _Uh - I - I - I’m going to propose. Marriage. I’m going to marry Dean._ ”

Gabriel sat forward, eyes widening in surprise as he heard the startlingly genuine happiness in Castiel’s voice. He sounded tightened like a cork in a bottle, and Gabriel could only imagine the sort of champagne that might flow from him when he really got screwed. By Dean.

Wow, he could actually see that happening - talk about a marital bed. Damn.

“Congrats,” Gabriel said, crossing his ankle over his knee. “When does the fairy pumpkin coach arrive?”

“ _...Fairy... pumpkin...?_ ”

✿

“You’re doing _what_?!” Benny bellowed, knocking over a pot of pencils and turning over a folder to the ground as he stood up immediately. “Are you out of your tiny pourri possédé _mind_?”

“ _I am, quite,_ ” Castiel said, too gleeful to be called sane. “ _I dare say when you loved Helena, you weren’t in your right mind._ ”

“I’m always in my right mind!” Benny shouted, throwing his black cap on his desk, dislodging a calculator and thoroughly startling Alfie, the baby-faced rookie, who stared at Benny across the room with a shaking coffee cup in his hand. “You cannot call me on the phone at _work_ at the _sheriff's department_ in the middle of the day and tell me you’re about to gay-marry my best goddamn friend!”

“ _It’s not―_ ”

“Why couldn’t you tell me this shit to my face, you good-for-nothin’ cocksucking ass-prick!?”

Castiel breathed.

Benny slammed himself back into his chair, growling down the phone line with his hand over his eyes. “Forgive me brother, this―” he grinned, bobbing his head, “this came as a _surprise_ , is all.”

“ _Sorry._ ”

“I thought you were leaving this kinda crap until you-know-when, brother. Why now?”

“ _You’re right. My father won’t be happy, but... I think he’d rather I did this now. If I went on to do as I planned, and divorced Daphne right after he passed away, I―_ ” Castiel laughed, “ _You know him. He’d probably come back from the grave and haunt me._ ”

Then, Castiel sighed, and Benny started to nod, understanding his reasoning when he explained, “ _I don’t want to lie any more. Which includes withholding the truth. I’m going to tell him my intentions. I’m going to tell him I want to marry Dean._ ”

Benny dragged a hand back over his head, letting out a slow, calming breath. “You’re sure it ain’t too soon? You ‘n Dean, you only known each other... what, less than two months?”

Castiel made a soft noise. “ _It’s not too soon. The time is perfect. In fact, the sooner, the better. Dean tells me so often he worries about dying young. I don’t think he’d want to go having missed this chance. To be with me. Benny, he wants to be with_ me _!_ ” 

Benny smirked, despite himself. “Yeah. That he does, brother.”

He was mildly daunted by the speed at which this was happening. Still, Castiel could judge for himself. Dean was surely head-over-heels, even Benny got the impression he was aching to settle down for good. All his subtle talk of _home_ and _love_ and _care_ over the past months had been a clue, and honestly, Benny ought to have known already.

“When’s the party?” he asked, with a tiny smile.

“ _I’m in the limousine now, we only have Daphne’s daughter Juliette, Sarah, Charlie’s girlfriend, and you left to pick up. And your daughter too, if she’s available. I think Juliette might like to meet her._ ”

Benny smiled a little more, because he did rather think Daphne’s daughter and Madeline might get along.

“ _Oh, and Dean. Obviously. But I’m still not sure how to get Dean out to the estate without him working out what we’re going for. If you put so many people together in one place, one of them, namely Gabriel or Charlie, is likely to... blurt._ ”

Benny grumbled, massaging his eyes. “I think I got an idea. Hell if I know if I can even get off work for today, but―”

“I’ll help!”

Benny looked over his partition at the cheerful face of Alfie, whose awkward smile seemed too outwardly helpful to be properly useful.

“I’ll man the office while you’re out,” Alfie offered again. “I’ve got it!”

Benny squinted at the morsel of a lad, and wondered what the chances of someone getting shot were if Benny took a few hours of leave. “Ha,” he grunted.

Alfie smiled a bit harder.

“Fine,” Benny snarled, turning his head down so he didn’t have to look at Alfie tear up in that borderline scared-excited way he had a tendency to when he was awarded responsibility. “Fine,” he repeated into the phone. “I’ll pick Dean up in my patrol car, you take the rest of the kids out to play. I’ll call Maddie, see if she’s game.”

“ _Thank you so much, Benny,_ ” Castiel gushed. “ _Sam’s bringing Dean’s picnic basket. Dean’s wanted to have a picnic for so long and he never did, and now he gets to, and―_ ”

“All right!” Benny snapped, thumping his hand on his desk to shut Castiel up. “I get it, you’re both a real good match for each other. I hope you have a ring, else I’m not having all this palaver for nothin’.”

“ _I don’t, actually. I can do that later._ ”

Benny squinted. “So what in the hell is this carnival for, if not to give the boy a ring?”

“ _I’m going to make him a promise,_ ” Castiel said. Benny could practically hear Castiel’s heart fluttering, and considering how sweetly Castiel spoke, he probably developed a spontaneous cavity. “ _I don’t have time to get a ring, I need to propose. I just... I don’t know, I feel like I_ need _to._ ”

Benny sighed and dipped his head. “I hear ya, brother.”

“ _Call me when you’ve talked to Madeline, we’ll pick her up on the way._ ”

Benny briefly considered the dangers of having Maddie in the same place as notably influential tricksters such as Gabriel, but brushed the thought away: Castiel was protection enough. And if Daphne and her daughter would be present too, Maddie would have a lot more fun than if she was planted in a patrol car with her Pawpaw.

“All right then, Cas,” Benny said, drawling. “I’ll keep you updated.”

✿

“Shh!” Sam hissed, trying to cut over the chatter of everyone else in the limo. “Shut _up_ , guys, I can’t hear Sarah!”

Gabriel popped the cork off the champagne, and a roar of celebration went up from Gilda and Charlie, who both stretched out a glass each to catch the spewing white bubbles that began to pool on the carpet. Crowley honked the horn from the driver’s cabin, and Sam just about heard the disgruntled yelp of “I’ll have you pay for damages, you mangy buggers!”

With one finger pressed into his ear, Sam scowled and attempted to listen to the buzzing voice that came from his phone.

“ _I’m in the ladies’ room - ah! - this dress is difficult to do up._ ”

“Do your best,” Sam said, “then come down and join us, I’ll help you.”

“ _I’m not wandering around a hospital in a sundress while I’m meant to be in A-and-E. I’m sneaking out the back, come meet me at the bottom of the metal stairs._ ”

“Will do. We’re on our way, just one more stop to make.”

Sam hung up after Sarah did, wincing at the splash of champagne that dotted his shoe. “For _god’s_ sake, guys, ease up a bit on the booze. There’s a child in here.”

Juliette lifted her gaze from her mother’s champagne glass, letting Daphne pry it out of her hands. Sam narrowed her eyes at the girl, but she _smirked_ , and Sam smirked right back. She reminded him a little of Boudicca.

Madeline was picked up next. She sat down and occupied a seat, squashed between Juliette and a jittery Castiel. Madeline’s grey eyes matched Benny’s, and her hair was knotted into braids down one side of her head. She looked about herself like she had stepped straight into the deepest circle of Hell and sat at a table that was serving drinks to Dante himself.

Sam edged forward, sincerity in his expression and a careful hand reached out to the girl, immediately catching her attention. “Hey, Maddie,” he said, “I’m Sam. I’m Uncle Dean’s brother. You okay?”

“I will break your nose,” Madeline said. “Twice.”

Sam retracted his hand, and marvelled at the speed Juliette turned around and set her eyes on Madeline. “I’m Juliette,” the red-haired girl said, offering her an open packet of M&Ms. “Mom told me your dad has a gun. Has he ever shot somebody?”

Eyebrows raised, Sam sat back further in his leather seat and took the champagne that Charlie offered him.

✿

It had been a slow day. Dean had opened up shop late due to the wonderful Saturday lie-in, and had been here less than two hours, but in that time, he’d had no customers at all. He perked up, therefore, when the door tinkled open and Missouri Moseley came inside.

“Afternoon,” Dean called, leaping onto his feet and tying his apron. “How’s things?”

“Ahh, so-so,” Missouri said, wandering slowly to browse one side of the shop. Her eyes lingered on the wall decorated with shells formed into a bow-and-arrow. She always seemed fascinated by it.

“Can I help you with something?” Dean offered, folding his arms and standing beside Missouri, peering up at the design as well. He was still proud of that day he’d spent with Castiel. He’d had the photo of them together printed, and it was now kept in the same place he kept the photo of himself with his mother, Mary.

“Nothing much,” Missouri muttered. “I didn’t come in here to buy anything.”

“Then...?”

Missouri dragged her eyes off the wall and landed her gaze on Dean. Slowly she looked him up and down, then smiled, meeting his eye. “I came to offer some advice.”

“Oh?”

She set her dark, warm hand on his chest, and Dean let his arms unfold as he felt her press down. “Hold onto that heart of yours,” she said. “You hold on tight.”

Dean’s lip shivered. Last time she’d said those words, he thought they were about Castiel. Did they mean something different now? Or was she simply reiterating her previous advice?

“Oh... okay,” Dean said, watching her retrieve her hand. “Can I ask what you mean by that?”

“You can ask,” Missouri’s eyes glinted, “but that don’t mean you’re getting an answer.” She swayed towards the door, momentarily tucking her fingers under Dean’s chin as she went. “You have yourself a nice afternoon, now, boy.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

Missouri paused at the door, turning back with something oddly mysterious in her eyes. “And you have a nice life, too. But promise me you’ll hang on to that heart.”

Dean gaped, drawing a frown between his eyebrows. “Is... Is something gonna happen?”

Missouri smirked. “We’ll see. Take care now!” She left the shop in a wave of dull incense, hobbling off down the slope with a smile on her face.

Dean stood there for a while, watching the fern fronds drift a short way in the gust of air that came from the closing door. The plants dangling from above attempted to tickle Dean’s ears, but he was having none of it, and batted them away as he strode back to the front desk.

Try as he might, he couldn’t worm his way back into the story he was reading. He knew from experience that when Missouri came with specific advice, it was always important. If only he knew what the advice _meant_.

✿

Twenty minutes later, the full limousine was driving down the highway, on its way out to the Montmorency Estate.

There were ten passengers in the long car. Sam sat beside Sarah, whose sky-blue sundress looked ravishing, half-sleeved and draped on her shoulders. Sarah was clutching onto Charlie to act as a tether, because Charlie could not for the life of her stop wiggling about. She had iPod earbuds in her ears, which was supposedly to calm her down, but Sam suspected she was playing her ‘Get Pumped’ mix. She was pressed up against Gilda, who looked nothing short of perfect in her pale golden cocktail dress, and laughed like a real lady.

Gabriel (wearing a green utility jacket and jeans, a choice which he defended by saying they were _clean_ ) sat opposite Gilda. Between the two of them, they had finished the champagne. He seemed happier than he had in days.

Castiel was still flustered and quiet, but when he met anyone’s eyes, it was clear how happy he really was. He seemed to be glowing, and he sort of _vibrated_ , and that had nothing to do with the massage settings inside the leather seats. Daphne sat beside him, talking with Sarah, Charlie and Gilda.

Madeline and Juliette sat in the far corner of the limo, feet up on the seats, trading kill tactics or government secrets, Sam could only assume from their beady eyes and sharp hand movements.

Daphne finally got everyone to shut up, stop waving at random people out of the windows (even though it was quite empowering when they waved back), and last but not least, got Crowley to stop inundating them with British slang. The accent didn’t do much to differentiate between ‘asshole’ and ‘arsehole’, but it made the girls and Gabriel alike giggle with amusement.

“Now,” Daphne sighed, lifting her cellphone so everyone could see it, “we have one last call to make. And I don’t want a _single_ interruption, do you all understand?”

The limo rumbled from the engine, but no voices came.

“Good,” Daphne said, thumbing at her phone. “If anyone decides they have something to say while this call is being made, believe me, they will find they no longer have a tongue to say it with.”

✿

Dean stifled a yawn halfway through when the phone started ringing. He flapped his hand across to the other shelf, almost getting a papercut and knocking the radio as he grabbed for the Bakelite handset.

“Cupid’s Bow,” he called into the receiver. “We do flowers, and we cater. Birthdays, weddings, funerals, you name it. If you got the snazz, we’ll give you the jazz.”

“ _...That’s nice._ ”

“Daphne?”

“ _Hi, Dean. You sound happy._ ”

Dean sniggered. “Yeah. Kinda. What’s up, what can I do for you?” he asked, rocking back on his stool until he almost lost balance, then set all three wooden legs firmly onto the tiles. “Is Cas alright? Emanuel, I mean.”

“ _He’s fine. He’s who I’m calling for, actually._ ”

“All right, shoot.”

“ _I neeeeed... hm, two dozen red roses. To be delivered._ ”

Dean’s heart plummeted to his feet. Daphne was sending Cas roses? _But you can’t do that, I love him._

He gave a shaky smile, cheek pressing closer to the phone. “Uh― o- okay,” he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Two dozen red roses. Deliver to where?” He exhaled. “It’s okay, I know where. I know his address, it’s cool.”

“ _Actually, I want them delivered somewhere else. I think you might know the place._ ”

Dean clicked the end of a pen, pulling out a notepad and hoping his hand wouldn’t shake too much. “Okay, I’ll write it down.”

“ _There’s this little shop, on a tiny boutique street just out of the main city,_ ” Daphne said, a smile in her voice. “ _I want them delivered to the apartment right above it._ ”

Dean’s breath caught. “Uh.”

“ _And I’d like a note, please._ ”

Dean poised his pen above the paper. “Go ahead.”

Daphne’s phone crackled. Dean frowned, hearing a commotion at the other end.

A completely different voice filled Dean’s ear. “ _The note should read - hmm, let’s see._ ” Deep and gentle, the very same voice that had hummed Dean to sleep last night.

Dean’s mouth twitched, breathless as he waited.

“ _For Dean. With love. Castiel._ ”

“Red roses and a note that says ‘With love’? Boy, sounds like whoever this Dean is...” Dean nibbled his lip, eyes to the beams of the ceiling as elation filled him completely. “Sure must be a lucky guy.”

“ _I think his partner might be the luckier one,_ ” Castiel said, quietly, softly.

“May-be,” Dean replied. Oh, he was happy. Very happy.

“ _I want those roses delivered immediately._ ”

“What, like, right now?” Dean asked, still grinning. “C’mon, I won’t have any roses left. If I waited till the end of the day at least I’d have some to sell.”

“ _It_ is _the end of the day,_ ” Castiel said. There was a secret behind those words, and Dean couldn’t tell what it was. “ _It’s time to finish work, Dean. Go home._ ”

Dean squinted. “Dude, it’s two o’clock.”

“ _Dean. Do as I say._ ”

Dean’s grin crawled higher up one side of his face. “Oh, boy, I love when you take control like that.”

“ _I - I know._ ”

Dean could sense the tiny self-conscious eye-roll, the cute tilt of his head, the playful look in his eyes. Castiel was in Daphne’s company, so likely didn’t want to further the demands. Dean gave in. “Fine, asshat,” he grinned, resting his chin on his palm. “I’ll take ‘em up now. But don’t feel like you get to do this all the time, okay - I do actually have a job to be doing here.”

“ _Dean. Flowers. Apartment. Now._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dean stood up, smirking. “And, uh, Cas?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Thanks for telling Daphne. You’re not the chickenshit hermit crab I thought you were.”

“ _Thank you. And you’re not anemone._ ”

Dean wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an insult or not.

“ _That... That was meant to be a joke. A pun. ‘Anemone’... ‘an enemy’..._ ”

Dean snorted and put a hand over his face. He heard a bustle on the other end of the phone line, like muffled laughter.

“ _Sorry._ ”

“Shut up, Cas, you’re fucking terrible,” Dean grinned. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“ _Or earlier._ ”

“Earlier, huh? What, you gonna come down and say hi, or―?”

He was cut off by the beeping phone line. He stared at the receiver, assuming the line had dropped as opposed to Castiel having hung up. He put the phone back on its hook, and stared at it.

Then he laughed, breathy and exhausted. He clutched his head in his hands, grinning to himself. He was god-freaking _ecstatic_. His heart was beating like short, sharp thunderclaps, and with every beat it leapt over the fucking _moon_. Everything was okay. Everything was going to be _awesome_.

He hurried to grab a notecard and scribble down the message - but as soon as the pen touched the card, he decided it needed to be neat. This was special, the kind of note that would end up in the scrapbook-slash-photo album Dean had been mentally compiling in his head over the past few days. Maybe there would be a seashell taped in there, perhaps a pressed flower or two beside the drawing Castiel did of Dean lying nude with a sunflower. The memories of Dean and Castiel. Their family.

God, he was such a sap.

_For Dean. With love from Castiel._

He put curls on the serifs of his letters, and he drew a small flower to dot the ‘i’ in ‘with’. Upon looking over the completed card, he then went back and changed the ‘i’ in ‘Castiel’ to a loveheart.

He wasn’t just a sap, he was a sixteen-year-old girl taken over by his first crush. And proud of it too, so long as Sam never found out.

Once he was done with that, he figured it would be too much effort to do up a proper bouquet in red paper and ribbons, so settled for simply picking up the entire bucket of red roses from its perch at the side of the shop. There were fewer than two dozen roses in the pot, so he filled the gap with some birds-of-paradise. It was unspoken and unnecessary, but Dean figured Cas wouldn’t mind at all, and had he known Dean was down on roses, he would have insisted on something else anyway. Probably birds-of-paradise.

Dean held onto his bucket and he cradled it, a wobbly smile on his face. It was like holding the finale of a romance novel in his hands, the end reel of a movie. He loved that part, the bit where the guy and the girl got together. It made him squiggly and warm inside, and he’d always craved that feeling for himself, the one that felt exactly the way he felt now.

As far as Dean knew, Castiel still hadn’t seen the end of _Little Shop of Horrors_. Dean wanted him to know how it ended. Screw what he’d said to Cas before - Seymour was most definitely Dean, and Audrey was most definitely Castiel. Dean wanted them to be together, which is why he would, and always would, prefer the theatrical ending to the movie, not the director’s cut.

High on the scent of roses and birds-of-paradise, Dean sighed. He plucked the notecard from the desk, tucked it between the plush blooms of his roses, and headed for the shop door. He parked the bucket on the desk for a moment to pick up the bit of paper that read ‘Back in 5 mins’ from beside the till, and he hooked it over the ‘Open’ sign.

He didn’t bother to lock the door on his way out. He’d be two minutes at most, given he had to use the bathroom anyway. He’d say hi to Sam, then be on his way.

The sun grazed his shoulders with heat, and it felt gorgeous. He could just imagine an afternoon spent sitting on a deck chair outside the shop instead of inside, and if it weren’t for the fact he―

Whoa, that was weird. The front door to the apartment was locked. It was never locked unless everyone was out.

Dean shrugged, figuring Sam shut it too hard and the pins bumped down. He put the bucket of flowers on the brick street, hearing the water inside the bucket sloshing to one side.

Dean grinned cheerfully. Finally, he had a chance to pick a lock again. He had his keys in his jacket pocket, but what fun was that? It wasn’t as if anybody was around here right now - even the coffee shop opposite was quiet, its glass doors open to let in the warmth but no people.

He ducked back into the shop, swiped up his leather jacket from the back of the stool. From his breast pocket he pried his small leather-boxed lockpicking kit, and once he returned to his front door, he pulled out his tension rod and stuck it firmly in the bottom part of the lock.

As he crouched to be at eye-level with the keyhole, the thin metal L wobbled slightly under his fingers. He bore with it - this kit was old and tired. He’d get a new one, some day.

Holding the tension rod firmly, he used his right hand and retrieved his rake pick from his kit. The pins in this lock were simple things, and while Dean had previously been bothered about home security, he’d always settled his fears on the reasoning that if anyone ever _were_ to break in, Sam would be there to bust their ass.

Except, Dean thought, as he jiggled the rake pick in the keyhole, Sam was meant to be home right now, and was probably too busy with work to be listening out for the click-click-clack of Dean successfully opening the front door with two bits of metal.

He wished he’d timed it; he couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds to have it over with. He still missed the ticking clack of a proper safe rotary dial, but this win was satisfying, if comparatively basic.

With his lockpicking kit in his breast pocket again, and his leather jacket pulled on so he didn’t have to carry it, he picked up the bucket of flowers and bounced up the stairs.

Cas loved him. Daphne was okay with it. Cas _loved_ him. Cas was all his, _at last_.

It played like a melody in him, better than the click of a lock or the slosh of water in his bucket of almost-two-dozen roses.

He reached the top of the stairs and pushed the door open with one hand.

“Yo!” he called out into the apartment. “Sammy, you home? You need lunch or something, ‘cause if you do, I’m buying.”

He plonked the bucket on the kitchen work bench, figuring Sarah could probably stomach the small amount of street grit that came with it. Dean would clear it up later, because right now, he was growing concerned that nobody seemed to be home.

“Gabe? Your shift starts at six, right?” Dean yelled, glancing over at Gabriel’s bedroom door. “C’mon, you lazy good-for-nothing. Did you feed the cats yet?”

Dean sighed at the lack of an answer, and sauntered across the room and opened his own bedroom door. Lucifer was curled in the centre of his bed, her kittens mimicking her position like small fluffy planets around a sun. Dean poked his finger towards each of them as he counted, one-two-Honeybee-four-five, then raised his eyebrows and shut the door again, leaving them to sleep. They had food, water, and clean litter, and judging by its neatness, someone had left it recently.

Dean crossed the apartment, gazing out at the yellow sun that cast his rooftop garden with something reminiscent of 1920’s India, putting him in mind of cool stone palaces with open pillar arches leading to grassy lawns, with posh explorers wearing khaki and mustaches. Dean’s baby tree saplings had a long way to go before they could be called elephants, but he liked the thought.

He knocked on Sam’s bedroom door, _tat-tattat-tat-tat_ , but the door swung open, creaking on its hinges. Dean leaned into the room. “Sammy?”

Sam’s papers were drifting across the carpet, pushed by the draft Dean had caused with the door. The bed was made, Sam’s wheely chair was turned away from the door, and Sam was most definitely not in the room. Even the blind was drawn down on the far side behind the bookcase.

“Huh,” Dean said. He turned away, glancing out at the fine weather once more as he passed the ceiling-high windows. “Where the hell is everybody?”

✿

Benny narrowed his eyes at Dean’s front door lock as he passed it. Dean promised him he’d never touch a lockpick again, and dang it to hell, that moment of weakness would require a stern talking-to later on. But Benny put it out of his mind for the time being, striding into the deserted Cupid’s Bow, tossing a straggling strand of not-quite-dead ivy out of his face. It had a green leaf on the end, and it tickled.

Benny slowly closed the door behind him, reaching up to hold the bell so it didn’t chime again. He needed not to be noticed, or seen - and he needed to be quick, before Dean came back.

He took a bucket of flowers and stuck the door open, and began pulling in the crates and stands and pots of flowers from the street, bringing them into the shelter of the shop. He paid little attention to neatness - speed was of the essence here. In under a minute, he had everything inside, and while he had not bothered to hose down the soil that was littering the path outside, he waved his hand at it, and shut the door behind him.

Standing with his hands on his hips, Benny surveyed the masses of flowers in the shop before him. Everything was big and blooming, and it all smelled like Heaven itself - which, admittedly, was the biggest reason he’d bought the shop first off. (Now, he figured that reasoning was less of an asset for Castiel, who in turn had bought it from him. Benny figured Cas liked it more for one particular employee than anything else.)

Sighing, Benny got to work. He pulled out handfuls of flowers at a time, all long-stemmed and colourful. Things that drew the eye, ones he knew would smell good. He wanted startling, and impressive - and he felt like was pretty much looting his own shop as he went for it, but he had Castiel’s permission. It was all good.

Lilies, honeysuckle, jasmine, birds-of-paradise, sunflowers, elderflowers, lilacs, and something with dots of white on the end. Grasses, blossoms, anything he could fit in his arms. He dumped it all on the desk, grabbed a long tug of paper, rolling all the flowers up in one grasp. He taped it, to keep it together rather than to make it look good. There had to be fifty flowers under his hands, and he trusted Dean to be able to make something great out of them.

Then Benny pulled out a set of new, decorative papers, and some cellophane - and lastly, he tucked the tape dispenser under his arm. With all of this heavy in one hand, almost surrounded entirely by the scent of blossom, he made his way for the exit. After tossing away the paper that said ‘Back in 5 mins’ on it, he flipped the ‘Open’ sign to read ‘Closed’ to outside. Then he shut off the lights, leaving the cooling systems on. He couldn’t let what was left over wilt overnight.

He exited the shop, closing the door slowly and carefully behind him. He put down as much as he could on the street, giving him his hands free to lock the shop door. Then he picked up everything once more, and hurried down the street to where his patrol car was loitering in a no-parking zone.

He crammed everything into the back seat, being gentle with the flowers. They took up enough space to almost reach the roof of the car, their bright and blooming faces turned towards the sidewalk side. Shutting the car door, Benny then stepped back to the lane, and leaned against the car with his arms folded, waiting.

✿

Dean trotted down the stairs, confused. He’d called Sam, but Gabriel had picked up, and all he got was laughter. It was perplexing, and he started to imagine that one or both of them were _conspiring_.

Once past the front door, Dean closed it and locked it behind him, eyes on the street. Everything was calm out here, with none of the dark woodsy shadows that followed him from the stairwell. He looked about himself, thinking something was... off. Something was different.

He edged up to the shop door, and stopped dead. The sign said ‘Closed’. Someone had been inside while he was away. Come the fuck _on_ , he thought. He’d been gone moments. _Moments_. And today had been his lucky day so far - why the hell did it have to turn sour so quickly?

Pressing up to the glass and cupping his hands around his face, he looked inside, seeing gaps and hollows in his buckets where there should have been monuments of blossoms, great and heaving green leaves, delicate colours and bold smashes of waxy petals.

He’d been robbed. And what was weird about it was that they’d put all his streetside flowers inside the shop, and all of it was done within the two or three minutes he was gone. It wasn’t just rude and presumptuous, it was downright _strange_.

Dean sniffed in alarm when he heard a car horn. He looked to his right, then his left, and set his eyes on a white car with a gold-brown stripe across its side. Benny―

Benny?!

Benny leaned back against his car and kicked his legs to cross at the ankle. He wore his sheriff’s hat and khakis, and he was waiting for Dean.

Dean glanced at the shop, then hesitantly moved towards the patrol car, concerned he’d be penalised for leaving the shop unattended. He put his hands in his pockets as he walked, and he walked slowly.

Benny didn’t seem to be in any hurry at all, despite being parked in a perfectly un-parkable place. Other vehicles were having to swerve out of the way of his roadblock of a car, and he’d practically re-directed the traffic. Dean did note, however, that seeing the sheriff's emblem on the hood of the car did encourage drivers to slow down. He’d never seen the cars on this road moving so cautiously.

“‘sup, Benny,” Dean muttered, halting his boots on the sidewalk, two feet from his friend. “What’s with the, uh, house call?”

Benny glanced at the car, then at Dean. He didn’t unfold his arms. “I’ve been told to tell you that this is a...” He gritted his teeth, and his eyes shot away. “A fairy-princess pumpkin coach.”

Dean’s mouth slid open, and slowly he started to chuckle. “Is this a joke?”

Benny’s eyes shot back to Dean. “You’d think, wouldn’t you.”

Dean’s eyebrows jumped, and he tugged his pockets downwards as he curled up loose fists. “So... Okay, what’s this about?”

“Get in the car, I’ll explain on the way.”

“You kidnapping me?”

Benny’s nostrils flared as he bumped himself off the car. “Why do you always ask that, brother? Seems like you _want_ to be kidnapped.”

Dean shrugged noncommittally, letting his hands out of his pockets and putting one hand on the sun-hot roof of the car. “I may be after a little adventure. Danger. Fun stuff, you know.”

“Ha.” Benny walked into the road and popped open the driver-side door, checking with the traffic flow before he opened it completely. “Get in, brother. _Back_ seat.”

“You arresting me?” Dean grinned.

Benny squinted, and ducked into his car and closed the door without a word. Dean, with a sigh, opened the back door and sank onto the fabric seat.

“Whoa,” he said, looking to his left. “ _You_ robbed my store?”

Benny peered through the safety grill that separated the back seat from the front. He tossed his hat onto the passenger side, and smirked at Dean. “Why, Dean, didn’t ya care to tell me you’d been robbed?”

Dean gaped, then closed his mouth, ending the awkward silence between them by zipping his safety belt across his chest. “So, where’re you taking me, then, hot-shot?”

Benny cranked the car into gear, looking into the street before pulling out to join the other cars. “Thirty-minute drive out to the countryside, figured you might like a scenic tour of the city.”

“On a Saturday,” Dean intoned. “In your cop car. With half my stock on the other seat.”

“Eyep.”

Dean blinked. “Where’s Sam?”

“Safe.”

“ _Safe_?!” Dean leaned forward, hands on the grill between him and Benny. “Is there danger? Are we blown, did something go wrong? Are you taking us to a safehouse? Oh fuck, Benny, where’s Cas? Is he okay? What’s―”

Benny was laughing, so Dean closed his mouth.

“Quit your flappin’ about, brother, I’m taking you to see Cas right now. To see his old man, to be exact. Those there flowers are for the old guy. I say you make ‘em up good so’s to make a good impression.”

Dean peered at the flowers, breathing in their thick pollen scent. “You _are_ kidnapping me. Benny, I don’t wanna talk to the big guy, he’s creepy and he makes Cas make this face, like he’s falling apart, and I can’t deal with that.”

“Heck, you will,” Benny said over his shoulder, meeting Dean’s eye in the rear-view mirror. They pulled down the turning which would lead them straight for the highway out of town. “You’ve faced down mob members and drug lords, and you’re telling me you’ve met your maker with a dying old guy? Sounds like you’ve gone soft, brother.”

“I ain’t soft,” Dean snarled, snatching at the pile of flowers and opening the tape that held them together. “I can make a goddamn flower bouquet that’ll blow his mind like a hurricane of C4, all right? That hard enough for you?”

Benny smirked into the mirror, and Dean pretended he didn’t feel the self-satisfied but friendly vibes oozing through the grill.


	27. Hold On to Your Heart

The Montmorency estate _sprawled_. Its grounds bled with green, outwards and upwards, oak trees the size of Dean’s apartment building bordering a magnificent country house. Its bricks were a pale brown, ancient, and the driveway spread widely before them. Dean heard the patrol car’s tyres crunching through the gravel.

His heart was in his throat, on the verge of panic.

“Benny, I can’t―”

“Shut the hell up, you goddamn sissy. He’s just a cranky old man. And a swindler at that. You and him ought’a have a helluva lot in common.”

“It’s not that,” Dean said, leaning forward until his safety belt clunked and pushed the lockpicking kit in his pocket against his chest like a bruise. “I met him before, right. And he was plenty snappy with me, ‘cause he wasn’t so happy his son was as gay as a maypole. But this time, it’s different. This time it’s like...” Dean sucked his lower lip between his teeth, letting it pull free with tight dents on it from where he’d bit down. “It’s like _meeting the parent_ this time. You know. Of your - partner.”

Benny sighed weightily as he killed the engine, shoulders hunched down. Dean could see he wasn’t keen on having this conversation, but Benny was pretty great at having conversations he didn’t like having and coming out better for it. Dean wished he had the same skill. Him, he tended to come out of it with a black eye or some other nasty gouge in his body. Or twenty-thousand dollars poorer... but that was one time.

“Get outta the car, brother, I need to look you in the eye for this.”

Dean watched Benny open his door and clamber out onto the gravel. The door slammed with a final clunk, and Dean took in a breath to gather some courage. He unlatched his safety belt and stood outside, his massive and drastically impressive bouquet in hand.

He set the flowers on the roof of the car as he closed the door, letting his eyes linger on the red tiger lillies, the orange birds-of-paradise, sitting comfortably amongst the warmest, most showy of his flowers. Seeing them calmed him; he was proud of the offering, and it reassured him to know that old Montmorency wouldn’t be able to turn it down.

“Brother,” Benny began, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean looked at him, swallowing.

Benny smiled, and let his hand drop. “All you gotta do is be as brave as you always are, all right? Now, I don’t mean the kind of bravery that has you shooting at cops tryin’ to arrest you, that’s plain dumbassery.”

Dean pulled a sideways smile, lowering his eyes to the embroidered emblem on Benny’s shirt pocket.

“I mean the kind of bravery that had you pull yourself outta the life you were living in. And the bravery it took to keep yourself out.”

Dean slowly met Benny’s eye, and felt his eyes water as Benny bumped his chin with his curled fingers.

“Keeping yourself outta trouble, that’s brave,” Benny nodded, shoving Dean on the shoulder then letting his hand fall again. “Keeping yourself clean.” He gave Dean a stern look, and Dean nodded, assuring his friend he wasn’t about to fall back on old vices so easily.

“Keepin’ your brother safe. Looking after a business. Keeping your family together, Dean. Those are some of the bravest things I ever saw, you hear me? My life fell apart because I was too much of a coward to hold onto Helena. And all I’m sayin’ to you now, brother, is stay brave. The kinda brave that has you hold yourself together ‘cause someone needs you.”

Dean’s gaze dallied around Benny’s holstered gun, looking at the taser tucked into his belt beside his work phone and his personal phone. Dean didn’t think what Benny said was right, because as he saw it, there were braver things than keeping himself sane and safe for the sake of other people. Saving lives, that was something he’d never done. Benny did that. Dean wouldn’t say it out loud, but Benny was something of a hero to Dean, the same way Sarah was.

“Brother,” Benny said, waiting until Dean met his gaze before he nodded. “You’re a fine man, Dean,” he said, grinning as he swayed his head. “You’ll make Cas proud, I know you will. I got your back.” He slapped Dean on the bicep, then pointed towards the front door of the house. “Now, go in there and kick some of that domestic one-percentile Fortune 500 ass.”

Dean managed a small snort on a smile, and wrapped his hand around the bouquet he’d made. He held it, looked down into the long green fronds that were set amongst the ruby-rouge and gamboge blooms, and he sighed as he made a wish upon the flowers: _Don’t let me fuck this up._

Benny walked with him towards the house. They passed a black limo parked in the driveway, its gloss gleaming in the sunlight. A stocky, balding man in a black suit and jacket, with lines on his forehead and a cigar in his mouth looked up as they passed, almost sliding off the hood of his limo as he stared at Dean’s face.

Dean frowned as the man’s cigar fell to the gravel, but he thought nothing of it, taking the guy to be somewhat less protective of genuine Cuban smokes than he ought to be. Dean guessed that was what came of living the high life. Cockiness, carelessness, and casual non-reaction over a total waste of good resources.

Cas wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like his father, and he didn’t run Divine Power the same way. That made him a better man than his father, just like Dean was a better man than John.

Yeah.

Dean stood on the doorstep to the mansion with Benny at his side. He pushed the doorbell and heard its sound inside. It went _ding-dong_ , like a real, proper rich-person’s doorbell.

Dean decided there and then that he would be a better man than _himself_. He wasn’t going to let Castiel regret choosing him. Dean was the _right_ choice. And he was going to show old Montmorency that.

A butler opened the door, prissy white gloves on his hands, and a bored-looking high-browed expression on his pale, wrinkled face. The guy had to be older than Montmorency himself.

“Good afternoon,” the butler said, in a slow and greasy voice that definitely suited his looks. “Do come in. Your company is awaiting you; if you would please follow the hallway, the passage through to the garden is open.”

Dean stepped in ahead of Benny, taking a deep breath. This place was exactly like the palaces he’d been thinking about earlier. The pale stone kept it cool, while a warm breeze drifted in from ahead. Dean could see reflections of daylight on the polished marble under his feet.

Benny led the way, their boots clumping and squeaking on the floor as they walked past pillars and a sweeping marble staircase that climbed outward and upward on the right. The butler was absent when Dean glanced back behind him, and he pondered over where the fellow had gone, and how on Earth he’d left so quickly and quietly. Tricks of the trade, Dean imagined.

He wondered if Castiel would ever employ personal butlers. He’d let his cleaner go, but those services were for an _apartment_. If Cas inherited this estate in his father’s will, he would never be able to care for the place without help.

Dean felt tatty in leather and old jeans, and was hyper-aware of the fact he’d gotten plant soil on his clothes and hadn’t washed it off. This house was too big and too grandiose for him. He was just a scruffball.

Sun poured through the hallway ahead, and they followed the light, following what sounded like children’s laughter. Dean was curious if Castiel had any cousins, maybe they had children. There had to be family alive somewhere, and Dean wanted dearly to meet them all.

His hand was sweating on the bouquet. He switched his hand, wiping his palm against his jeans.

They walked through a marble arch, and into a new room. The area before them was massive, gleaming with golden-white. A dining table was set on the right, its cloth wafting about in the breeze. An unlit candelabra was placed in its centre, and plates of food on the flat surface swelled with colour; roast chicken, salads, a jelly or two. Summer food.

“Think that’s for us?” Dean muttered, bumping his wrist on Benny’s side.

Benny glanced at the table, then towards the open chiffon curtains at the back of the hall, giving no more than a “Hm.”

At the very moment Dean looked around, Castiel entered the house through those open sunny doors, smiling from some other conversation, a summer breeze written on his face like sweet words. His smile changed as he saw Dean: he glowed, like the slanted sun he walked through was a part of him.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, eyes like stars. A universe of gladness rested on his face.

“H- Hey, Cas,” Dean said, watching his angel approach. He was wearing white all over, a smart shirt and crisp, pressed white trousers, like a Navy captain. Dean was in half a mind to look for a hat.

Castiel shook Benny’s hand, but Benny clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him in for a hug, chuckling a greeting. Castiel looked momentarily startled, but the wide-eyed expression fell away and became a smile, and Dean smiled too, watching Castiel meet Benny’s eye as he pulled back.

“It’s good to see you here, Benny,” Castiel said. “I’m glad you could join us.”

“You too, brother. How’s your Paw?”

Castiel glanced out of the open door, then back to Benny. “Good,” he sighed, his breath bringing out a fresh smile. “He very much likes Juliette. And I think, perhaps with some adjustment,” he tipped his head, “he might get more accustomed - or immune - to Madeline’s charms.”

Benny harrumphed with fatherly pride, letting Castiel’s shoulder go. He looked between Dean and Castiel’s faces, smirking. “I’ll let you two lovebirds have a time alone.” He winked at Castiel and tapped his fingers on an absent cap in Dean’s direction.

Dean watched him go, then set his eyes on the utter beauty that Castiel’s face was in this light. Dean was unsure if he was allowed to kiss him. Nobody else was here, and they were alone, and yet―

“Come with me, Dean,” Castiel said, offering his hand to Dean.

“What, no kiss?” Dean asked, taking the proffered hand.

“There’s something I need to do. Say.” Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean as he led him towards the open doors, where the chiffon was lifting and falling as the gentle wind played with it.

“Well―” Dean tugged on Castiel’s hand, stopping him before he stepped out into the sunlight and the garden beyond. “Well, I want to say hello. Hold on a second, would you?”

Castiel stood and waited, and Dean smiled. His hand slid from Castiel’s and skimmed up over his shoulder, pulling to rest at the nape of his neck.

He leaned in, heart pounding with rich, fast colour. He set his lips on Castiel’s, and it felt so goddamn _right_ that Dean knew, so very deep down, that this was never going to be a mistake. He’d feel like this forever, he’d still feel like this once he was dead and buried.

Castiel’s kiss, his lips, his breath casting itself under Dean’s tongue - it made him feel like he was a god, his waist held by a stronger, better god, one who cared nothing for the fact that Dean was a lesser god, because they were, in fact, both gods.

Even admitting their imperfections, they were perfect together, and Dean had known from the first kiss that that was an upstanding truth.

“A-hem,” an old, grey voice said.

Dean broke the kiss slowly. He was startled by the interruption, but he felt so caught up in _Castiel_ that he wasn’t all that bothered by the fact his father was standing less than three feet away, just inside the foyer of the cool dining area.

Castiel shuffled his feet, licking his lips and eventually facing his father, lifting his chin like a proud Navy captain enamoured with an honest man, not the pirate that Dean really was.

“Father, you’ve met Dean,” Castiel said, nodding. “Dean, my father.”

Dean wiped his sweaty hand on his shirt and stuck it out to Montmorency. “Pleasure to see you again, sir.”

Mr. Montmorency raised his eyebrows, surprised by the firm shake Dean gave his hand. The old man’s muscles were weakened by his sickness, but Dean still sensed a force in his grip, almost equal to Castiel’s.

“Charmed,” the old man said bluntly, turning his eyes on his son. He said it partly as an accusation, partly as a scold. Certainly, he spoke in surprise. As if he had expected Dean to shy away from politeness.

“These are for you, sir.”

The old man hesitated, then took the flowers with both hands, peering at them with wide, stunned eyes. “My, my,” he said, some of the breath gone out of him. He looked up at Dean sharply. “This is what you make?”

Dean inclined his head. “Yes, sir. Those are some of my personal favourites in that one.”

Montmorency attempted to straighten himself up, but was too frail. Castiel moved forward to grasp his forearm, keeping him strong as he stood beside him.

“These,” Montmorency said, “are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Dean replied, smiling partially in relief, partially with internal pride at the compliment.

“Dean makes everything that way,” Castiel said, his shining eyes resting upon Dean’ face, head tilted. “He loves the Earth’s gifts even more than Mother did.”

Dean may or may not have blushed a little bit.

Montmorency stared at his flowers some more, hypnotised by them. Dean had made the bouquet to speak pleas in his stead: _I love your son, thank you for making him. Please let me have him._

“Father,” Castiel said gently, “I need to talk to Dean alone, may we please be excused?”

“Hrm?” The old man looked up, his blue eyes landing on Castiel, then Dean. “Oh - oh, yes,” he rumbled, his voice gruff, and notably layered with a tone of forced bravery. “Yes, go and tell him... tell him what you will.”

Castiel must have had a long talk with him, or else the old man had talked _himself_ up to this acceptance. Given the relieved slump of Castiel’s shoulders, Dean supposed the latter might have been more likely. This was a new development, and a pleasant surprise to both Dean and Castiel.

Castiel cast Dean a slow and inviting look, hand slipping to hold Dean’s. “Come on, Dean, we’ll talk in the garden.”

Dean halted on the step just outside the door. “Sir?”

Montmorency looked up, and Dean saw him teary-eyed, fingers touching the sunflower resting amongst the bouquet. Dean lost his initial thought for a moment, instead considering the significance of the wide yellow petals and brown face that the sunflower presented.

If Castiel’s thoughts were to work in symbolism, then perhaps his father’s did too. Perhaps he saw that sunflower as a representation of love, of pleading, of wishes that came true the wrong way. Perhaps, in seeing the sunflower, he saw a way to make sure his son’s life didn’t go the same way as his wife’s.

Perhaps that flower meant to him exactly what Dean had put it there to mean.

Dean cleared his throat, lifting away his frown. Catching Montmorency’s eye, he struck up a smile. “You, uh, you wouldn’t happen to want five small cats, would you, sir? Only, I can’t quite breathe if they’re around. And...” He smiled wider, seeing the piquing curiosity into the old man’s expression. “And when you really get down to it - kittens? They’re kind of a lot like children.”

Castiel chuckled, and Dean beamed at the old man, leaving him to think the offer over. The man’s face appeared to dip into shadow as Dean stepped into blinding sunlight, hopping down the steps with Castiel’s fingers between his own. They ran like children down the path into the garden, and Dean marvelled at all the glorious treats that the grounds before them offered.

A complete array of colour was blossoming all around them. Flat green grass spread outward either side of the winding path, clipped short by ducks’ beaks or lawnmowers, Dean couldn’t tell which. A pond house glimmered with reflected water off to the right, swans drifting on the water’s blue surface, its edges surrounded by flowers of seemingly every type. To the left, a willow tree grew with its long whip-like branches drifting in the breeze.

The golden stasis of classic summery hush simmered in the air, and in all, this place appeared to Dean as a part laid down in Heaven.

And directly ahead, in the centre of the grass, a group of people sat, sharing drinks, and food on plates. Dean’s picnic basket was placed between them all, its wicker lid lifted to display the red checkered pattern inside, and the kind of sandwiches that Dean recognised from the shop beside Cupid’s Bow.

“I made sure everyone would be here for this,” Castiel said, turning his face to Dean as they made their way off the path and towards the group.

“Here for what?”

Castiel smiled as they approached their friends. “I wanted our family together.”

Dean beamed, basking in the glow that came from Castiel. “Our family,” he echoed. “Awesome.”

“Hey!” Charlie squealed, raising a hand straight up in the air as she saw Dean. Dean watched her leap to her feet and scurry closer, Sarah’s dusk-blue dress fitting her well, its ribbon flower perched on her right shoulder.

She ran into Dean’s arms― “ _Oof_!” and Dean had to let go of Castiel’s hand before he twisted something. “Hi,” he grinned, kissing Charlie’s hair. “You look like a million bucks.”

Charlie pulled off him, her eyes sparkling like gems. “Hiiiii,” she cooed.

Castiel cleared his throat and casually tapped a finger to his lips. To Dean it looked like a pointed shushing gesture, but he couldn’t be sure. Charlie took something from it though, and backed off Dean, a crazy look in her eyes - which, really, was not too far from normal.

Sam approached, and Dean raised his eyebrows, spying one of his own ruby-red ties around Sam’s neck.

“Hey,” Sam said, and pulled Dean in for a hug, so tight that Dean had to gasp for air above Sam’s shoulder.

“H-hey,” Dean managed, still being smushed under Sam’s gorilla arms. “Wow, what’s gotten into you? Last time you hugged me willingly, Gabriel spiked the punch.”

Sam pulled off, tiny sniffly tears in his eyes that startled Dean enough that his stomach felt tight. “Nothing,” Sam breathed, blinking away the tears. “It’s nothing, just... I... missed you?” he tacked on, trying for innocence that he was at least twenty years too old to pull off.

“Sure you did, little brother,” Dean said, slapping Sam on the arm. “I missed you too.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly distant from the truth. He’d panicked about his whereabouts twice in the past forty-five minutes, so that had to count for something.

Dean was again surprised as he got a hug from Gabriel, followed by Sarah, followed by Daphne.

“What the heck is up with you guys,” he muttered, astounded as Daphne let go of him, wearing a wide smile. “It’s like someone _told_ you I’m a sucker for a real heart-to-heart,” he said, only somewhat sarcastically.

“Ah, that would be me,” Castiel murmured, and Dean turned a salient eye on him. “I thought, in the long run, you might appreciate it.” Castiel shrugged, a loose and gentle movement that Dean had never before seen him pull off so effortlessly. Ease suited him. “Apologies.”

Dean fluttered a careless hand in his direction. “Ahh, no worries. Come Christmas, I’ll be a happy drunk. We can have, like, a huggy mistletoe.”

Castiel beamed at him, a quiet smile curving his lips at the corners. “Thinking about the future, I see.”

“Yeah.”

Dean flicked his eyes to Sam and Sarah, then Charlie and Gilda, who had grouped off a few feet away. Gabriel chatted with Benny, and with old Montmorency, who arrived with no flowers in sight and all his weight on a cane.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about the future,” Dean reiterated, gaze drifting to Castiel once more. Seeing him looking back, he felt like flying. “I got a few things to hold out for, now.”

Hearts, maybe. Hearts to hold onto.

“―Kali,” Montmorency said.

Dean’s eyes shot across the small gathering, now listening to Montmorency’s discussion with Gabriel. Everyone else was listening too, their attention triggered by Kali’s name.

“You too, so I heard,” Gabriel offered, giving the old man a sad smile.

Montmorency nodded slowly, looking downward. “Alas, she was a fine woman. Too fine for me, in the end. Ladies with sharp minds, they always are.” He peered across to Daphne, and bowed his head, something respectful in his eyes.

Gabriel hummed, scuffing his toes through the grass, hands in his pockets. “She was a world too scary for me, too.” He glanced at everyone who was listening in, and shrugged. “What? She was. I may be badass and awesome in ways you can’t even imagine, but I’m pretty sure she had a quart of ancient goddess in her blood. At best, I’m―”

“An archangel,” Castiel supplied. Everyone turned to him, and he smiled, taking Dean’s hand without looking. “Gabriel, messenger of God. The equivalent of Hermes, perhaps. There’s blood of a god in you, too, if you would like to see it that way,” he said to Gabriel. He tilted his head, and Dean watched him rather than anyone else, because Castiel was the most fascinating thing the universe had ever conjured up.

“There’s always potential,” Gabriel said. “But you know what?” Dean caught a glimpse of Gabriel’s smile as he chuckled, “I’m better off single. I’ve still got things to _do_ , like play Angry Birds on the toilet and find another job. My gut tells me Kali wouldn’t have enjoyed my company forever, shitty as that is. Some couples were never meant to be.” He shrugged boldly, sucking down his emotion.

Dean looked fully at Gabriel then, because Gabriel was looking right back at Dean. Gabriel opened his mouth to add, “Unlike others.”

Dean frowned. “Huh?”

Gabriel beamed, and Dean was vaguely aware of everyone else present doing the same, including the two young girls in frocks who both had sticks as swords tucked through the ribbons at their waists.

“Come, Dean,” Castiel chose this moment to say. Dean looked at him. Castiel tugged on his hand. “Come this way, there’s something I want to show you.”

Gabriel started. “What... Nothing you can’t show him in front of us?”

Castiel shook his head, still pulling Dean away. “No.”

“C’mon,” Gabriel complained, stepping forward. “Why call us all here if you―”

He stopped talking as Charlie took his wrist. He looked at her, and she shook her head. “Let them go, we’ll see them after.”

Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew something was about to go down, he just couldn’t be sure what. It made him fidgety. He looked at Castiel’s face, seeing those blue eyes as they rested their gaze on his friends, then Dean looked over at everyone who stayed behind around the picnic blanket. They were all staring as Dean and Castiel left them.

Castiel kept on pulling Dean. Dean followed.

“Where are you taking me?”

Castiel smiled, secretive and beautiful. “Someplace special.”

They walked in silence over the grass. They passed the pond, the willow tree, leaving that part of the garden behind. A bridge came up at part of the path, a swell that rose over a stream. Dean trailed his hand on its edge as they crossed it. It had been carved from white wood; flowering ivy wound around its trellis.

Dean was starting to fall in love with this place. It didn’t feel like it belonged to Castiel, and it certainly didn’t feel like it belonged to Dean, yet he still felt something possessive as his fingertips touched those delicate ivy blossoms.

He could almost hear a string quartet somewhere out here, like an echo of music that played here, once. The imagined sound filled the grounds, a song and a harmony - beautiful the way Castiel’s double bass had been for him last night.

Castiel didn’t look at him, but Dean felt the way he held his hand. He held him not for Dean’s comfort, nor his own, but because that was how it was meant to be. Their hands were meant to fit together, Castiel was meant to walk down a garden path at Dean’s side, as his equal partner, but still leading him for the moment. Dean felt as if he was being led into a new existence.

✿

Daphne looked up from her fruit salad, and saw a dark suited figure striding across the lawn further away. She raised her hand and waved, recognising Crowley, the limousine driver. Crowley waved back, but Daphne, squinting, discerned he was in fact only waving one finger.

“Gosh, he is rude, isn’t he,” Gilda laughed, knocking Charlie in the side. “I have a brother like him.”

Charlie smirked, and offered Gilda a bunch of red grapes. “I hope I meet that brother one day,” she said.

Gilda beamed, taking the grapes. “Hmm. Interesting thought. Maybe you will.”

Daphne smiled at the two other women, then at Sarah, who was opening a fresh bottle of chilled sparkling water. Daphne then watched Crowley walk towards the end of the garden, heading the same way as Dean and Castiel had. He had a cigar in his mouth, so Daphne supposed he was probably going for a smoke, and would stop at the bridge. It was such a nice place to sit and think, after all.

✿

Dean tugged on Castiel’s hand as he took him between a sun-dashed copse of trees, sycamores. Seeds gushed down from above, circling and swirling as they fell, knocked by the breeze.

The trees rushed with sound here, like waves on a beach. This place fell shaded, but became cast with gold light through the leaves above. It smelled sweet, the scent of sap rising from the shed bark that littered the path under their feet.

Dean inhaled deeply. He was enraptured by this, his chest easing its earlier tightness, his worry fading under the dappled sunlight and the companionable silence Castiel made for him.

But he didn’t think this journey was for the walk alone. They were headed in a particular direction, and Castiel knew where he was going.

“So, about this place,” Dean ventured, nudging Castiel’s side with his arm. “How nice is it?”

“Very nice,” Castiel confirmed. He glanced over, caught Dean’s eye with a sly smile, and then looked away again. “You’ll like it.”

“How come nobody else can come?”

Castiel chuckled, looking down as he kept walking, but he didn’t answer.

✿

“I, for one, am not sitting around while stuff happens _without_ me,” Gabriel said, folding his arms. “Ten years time, they’re gonna regret that they didn’t have witnesses. They’ll be arguing about Dean’s precise reaction to being asked, and unless we see it happen, we can’t be sure.”

Sam scoffed, flicking the green leftover part of a strawberry at Gabriel’s face. “Cas wants it to be private. Let them have that.”

Sarah hummed, putting down her plate and uncrossing her legs. “I don’t want to miss Dean’s face.”

“I don’t want to miss him crying,” Charlie said, pointing at Sarah and nodding. “I love when he cries, he gets all wobbly-eyed and makes this total anime face. And there’s always this _one_ perfect tear.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He should probably take issue with how closely Charlie studied Dean’s fits of emotion, but he himself wasn’t unaware that such a thing was true. He’d much rather see tears of happiness than tears of sadness, however.

“Huh!” Gabriel stood up, arms still folded. “I’m going to watch. Who’s coming with?”

“We shouldn’t,” Sam said.

“No, but you _could_ ,” Daphne said, shooting Sam a perky smile. “Not all of us have to go. I’ll stay with the girls. You go,” she insisted, tapping Sam on the arm. “It’s a big moment for your brother.”

Sam looked up and saw Charlie, Gilda, Sarah and Gabriel standing together, waiting for him.

Benny slowly stood up too, clearing his throat. Sam looked at him, and Benny shrugged.

“What? They’re my two best friends, I ain’t in any mind to miss the moment they’ll both be telling me about for the rest of their lives.” He wafted a hand, dismissive. “I’m happy to be a prime witness if it means I get to tell them to shut the hell up ‘cause I saw it happen myself.”

Sam grunted and stood up, pretending he was reluctant. “You’re all a bunch of perverts,” he told his friends.

Gabriel winked. “You don’t know the half of it.”

✿

They slowed down a bit, ending their stroll through the trees. Dean breathed slowly and deeply, enjoying the look of sunlight glowing over a plush field of grass to their right. Wooden fence posts lay crippled between fields; the place they used to border was obvious: the grass was a different shade on each half.

“Talk about greener on the other side,” Dean grinned, gesturing at the fields. Beyond their furthest point there was a border of trees, and beyond that, he could only see the blue sky. It was magnificent, the air was fresh and light, and the sun on his face made his eyelashes feel shiny.

That fence needed fixing, and he felt the urge to fix it himself. Some day, he could be incredibly at home here.

Castiel sighed as he looked over the dominion that Dean admired. “Ah, that would be the work of angel cakes.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, shooting Castiel a quick look as he adjusted his glasses. “Am I meant to know what that means?”

Castiel ducked his head, laughing. He peered at Dean though his dark lashes, and Dean became fully aware of his own expression turning to something meek and hopelessly longing.

Castiel blinked, and with his eyes crinkled in remaining laughter, he looked over the field, chin raised. He whistled a long and chirpy note, like he was calling a dog.

“Is Shadowfax gonna pop outta somewhere, or...?”

Dean laughed and shook his head as Castiel clearly didn’t understand his reference. “Charlie’ll get you reading the right stuff one day.”

Dean was then surprised, as his expectations were not so far from the truth. From the far edge of the greener field, a brown, dusky-pelted horse trotted out from the trees. Its mane shimmered and flew glossy in the afternoon sunlight, and Dean laughed, seeing the creature start to gallop as it saw Dean and Castiel standing near the sycamores.

Castiel raised his hand in greeting. The horse clambered up the short ridge that lay between the field and the two of them. Castiel chuckled, reaching forward a hand to touch its muzzle as Dean hung back, waiting while Castiel touched the animal.

“This is Angel Cakes,” Castiel said, with a smile in Dean’s direction, over his shoulder. “She used to race until she injured herself. I couldn’t bear to have her put down, so I paid for her to be rehomed. Here.”

Dean looked around at the horse’s home; glorious, expansive. “Yeah.” He gave a breathy laugh. “I wouldn’t mind living here either.”

He still didn’t move to pet the horse. She was bigger than he thought horses were. 

Castiel pulled on his hand, though, and Dean only gave a moment of resistance before he let Castiel set his hand on the horse’s nose.

“Oh,” Dean said. The horse’s nose was wide under his hand, soft as anything. The mare snorted, long eyelashes batting away a tiny fly.

“Hm?” Castiel asked.

Dean rubbed his palm on the dark muzzle of the beast before him, eyebrows raised. “It’s like touching a jersey blanket.”

“And she’s always gentle,” Castiel added, taking Dean’s free hand to hold it. “I intend to make this estate a sanctuary. So many old racing horses are put down because they break one leg and can’t race.”

“Sucks,” Dean muttered, heartened by Castiel’s thoughts of changing what seemed to Dean like an unnecessarily cruel practice. He looked over at Castiel, smiling at him. “You’re kinda awesome, Cas.”

Angel Cakes nickered, butting Dean’s hand - he startled, pulling away. Castiel laughed, so amused that his nose crinkled. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off that face, nor could he unhear those wonderful chuckles. When Castiel straightened, his eyes were shiny.

“I’m not usually this jumpy, I swear,” Dean assured him, grinning awkwardly.

Castiel lifted their joined hands, kissed the back of Dean’s. “If you say so.”

Dean licked his lips, petting the horse’s nose once more. He let his hand drop as she moved to bite a cracker that Castiel had been keeping in his pocket.

Angel Cakes turned away at Castiel’s command: a pat on her shoulder. Dean watched her tall, broad body trot down the short ridge and slowly make her way back to her twin fields.

If that was all Castiel meant to show him and tell him, Dean was impressed, but he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He felt bad for feeling that way, but given the secrecy and the expectations he’d built up while getting here, he wanted more. He _needed_ more. He didn’t know what this moment was supposed to be, exactly, but it needed to be special.

He knew what he needed, and he knew what he was expecting, but he didn’t dare to think it in so many words. He didn’t want to be let down, but he could be wrong.

He knew what this _looked_ like, though.

Castiel led him on, hands together, pulling him onwards.

Dean followed, because being led by Castiel was how he wanted to live every day of his life.

✿

“Where the hell are they?” Charlie muttered, picking up a chip of sycamore bark and hurling it ahead on the barely-visible path. “They could be _anywhere_.”

“We should’ve brought Daphne with us,” Gilda said, taking Charlie’s hand. “She knows this place really well.”

Benny made a gruff sound. “Daphne knows it well. But I know it just fine. I come here sometimes, for fundraisin’ and what-have-you. Nice walks around here. Especially in the fall.”

“Do you know where Cas would’ve taken Dean?” Sam asked, scampering to join Benny at the head of the congregation. “To propose, I mean.”

“Yeah, I can guess.” Benny tutted, looking about himself among the trees. Sunlight caught his pale cheeks, making his bristly beard spike with highlights. “There’s a field around the side, about ten minutes’ walk from here. They’d be goin’ slow and romantic-like. We’d catch up.”

“We _shouldn’t_ catch up, though - at least not until the moment it happens,” Charlie objected.

“Yes, we should,” Gabriel said, forcing his way to stand beside Benny. “We should hide while it happens. I wanna see the part where Cas gets down on one knee.”

“Well, ain’t someone a soppy fool at heart?” Benny sneered at Gabriel.

Gabriel grinned. “I’m a dateable hunk, so sue me. You wanna go? Huh? _Huh_?” He spread his arms and pecked at Benny, who did not do so much as flinch. Sam laughed, seeing the stern expression Benny used to make Gabriel sigh and fall back.

Benny was quiet for a bit, leading them closer to the end of the sycamores. Sunlight filled the space beyond; Sam could see green, and trees in the distance.

Benny shot Sam a quick glance, and Sam looked back, questioning.

Benny smiled softly, lowering his eyes. “I hope you changed your mind from earlier, all your thoughts on me,” he said, referring to the stinging heat-of-the-moment comments Sam had said to him at the police station after Sarah had been arrested. “I do like him, God as my witness. Dean’s a real buddy of mine, good as any of the guys at the station. Better, even - but don’t tell no-one I said it.”

Sam flattened his lips, trying to hide his tense smile. “Uh,” he grinned a little bit. “I’m sorry for all that... crap. Everything I said.”

He sighed, squinting at a distant dark shadow that seemed to flicker at the edge of his vision, a man in a suit, walking through the trees. Distracted, Sam passed the sight off as nothing important, instead concentrating on thinking of his next words.

“I see Dean and I see the only person I’ve had, the only... constant, since I was a baby. He always protected me. He’s never been close to anyone, he’s never depended on anyone but family. I think...” Sam chuckled, seeing the pointlessness of his previous views. “You know what, I think I was just jealous.”

He shook his head, and smiled as he saw Benny grin.

Benny slapped him on the back, friendly. “It’s all good, man. You took good care of that boy until now. It’s not as if me bein’ around is gonna change anything between the two of you. Hell, same for Cas.”

Sam screwed up his eyes against the sudden brightness as they exited the shade of the sycamores and started following the path to the left, passing a grazing horse in one of two adjoining fields. “Actually,” he said, “Since he’s known Cas, Dean’s been...” Sam took in a breath of warm air, at a loss for concise words.

“He’s been happy,” Benny said.

Sam settled at that. He looked behind him, taking Sarah’s hand and squeezing it. “Yeah.” Sarah smiled at him, and Sam said the word aloud. “Happy.”

✿

Castiel licked his lips.

Dean glanced at him, then back to the path they were walking. It was nothing more than worn-away grass, flattened dry ground. People had been walking this way for years. Dean wanted to know what this path led to, and with every step, he knew he wasn’t very far from finding out.

Castiel hung back, still holding Dean’s hand as they neared an archway made of a shaped shrub; rose vines were in full bloom around its edge, and Dean forged ahead, excited to see what was beyond.

Castiel laughed, having to hurry to keep up with Dean’s eager feet. “Slow down, Dean.”

“It smells fucking amazing,” Dean breathed, pulling Castiel through the archway. He sighed out a note of awe, halting right away. “Holy mother of fuck.”

Their feet met the edge a meadow of wildflowers, crazy colours and shapes completely covering the area, spread out widely before them. Dean stood still on the spot, _stunned_ at the view. It was marvellous in every sense.

“This was my favourite place in the grounds when I was young,” Castiel said, standing beside Dean. “It’s still my favourite.”

Bumblebees flew about, buzzing trails in the air; butterflies flitted amongst colours, like they had become airborne flowers themselves. Scent rose from this place like steam, glowing bright. Between the poppies, the sunflowers, the peonies, and the occasional tree, this place presented the epitome of a summer garden. It bled passion from its endless corners. Untamed, a sea of blooming flowers.

All those pristine paths and clipped lawns could stuff themselves - this was what a garden was _meant_ to be.

Dean rubbed his empty hand back through his hair, seeing the very same boxy wooden beehive in the centre of the field that Castiel had painted. There was no path leading there, since it had grown wild.

“I haven’t been back here in years,” Castiel said, leaning on Dean’s side. “I let it go to seed, and I...” he chuckled, “I didn’t expect this to grow like this, but it did.”

“It’s fucking amazing,” Dean whispered. He shifted his feet, looking down to see he was standing on pure moss, growing like a live carpet over an unseen ground below. It was soft, and he felt himself sinking into it by almost an inch.

The sun made everything sparkle ahead of him. Golden, rich with reds and blacks and royal purples - green sat under every stem, but the flowers’ faces painted the meadow with all the colours of a rainbow - and more, disconnected and mixed up.

Dean stood there, captured by everything he saw and felt. Even the _sound_ this meadow made was enticing - bees, birds in the distance, drifting hushes of wind that scattered ripples through the flowers. He only snapped out of it when he felt Castiel pulling on his hand again.

“We’re going in?” Dean asked, tottering after Castiel, trying to be careful with the moss. “Won’t we get stung?”

“They know me, the bees,” Castiel assured him, a twinkle in his eye. “I cared for their ancestors, I probably have a portrait in their front hall.”

Dean laughed, because he loved when Castiel made jokes.

Their feet split the wildflowers, and Dean’s breath caught upon seeing them surround him. His boots became engulfed by tangles of thin stems, tall petals and waving gusts of pollen. He was wading in plants all the way up to his knees, and he held onto Castiel’s hand for both stability and reassurance.

This was beautiful. So perfect. And Dean was still scared by it, dwarfed by its significance. This was Castiel’s sacred place, and it had gone to seed, and become a breeding ground for the flora that Dean lived and breathed on a daily basis. Dean’s personal sanctuary was always in flowers, and Castiel’s sanctuary had become the same thing.

They found safety in the same places, and in each other. It was a sign, Dean was sure of it.

Maybe he wanted what he wanted too badly. Maybe he was reading too much into the parallels, the way their lives intertwined like vines.

But _god_ , did he want it.

✿

“We got maybe five minutes to walk now,” Benny said, directing their group down an old path cut into the grass. Tufts of greenery grew all around, the songs of birds and humming bees creating a constant countryside ambience.

“I hope we didn’t miss it already,” Sarah muttered, adjusting her hold on Sam’s hand. “Maybe we should go faster?”

“Naw,” Benny said, holding a hand up to slow her. “If we show up right after, nobody gets Castiel’s stink-eye. Honest, it’s safer for everyone. He can glare something terrible if he don’t get his way - but nobody dare tell him I said that, either.”

Sam smirked. He wasn’t ready to admit it to Dean, but Benny was kind of growing on him.

✿

Castiel stopped the two of them as they reached mid-field, far from the beehive, leaving a regrettably crushed trail back where they’d walked. He turned and took both of Dean’s hands.

Dean grinned, still looking about him, closing his eyes for a moment to soak up the sun, breathing in the perfume of this place. _This_ was Heaven. If he could die in a place like this, he’d be happy to go.

“Kali,” Castiel said.

Dean frowned, staring confusedly at Castiel. “What?”

Castiel took a breath. “I ought to thank Kali.”

Dean frowned deeper. “You... do realise she wrecked your dad’s life, right?” Fuck, he thought. Why were they talking about Kali _now_? Dean wanted to talk about flowers and beauty and love, not a scary lady in a red dress who was nowhere to be seen, and hopefully never would be again.

Castiel shook his head, thumbs stroking each of Dean’s hands. “If it weren’t for her, I would still be under my father’s thumb. I should thank you too - for lending me the bravery to take what I needed to take.”

Dean shrugged, offering a tiny smile. He hadn’t even realised he’d done anything.

“But, Kali,” Castiel ducked his head, watching as he rubbed Dean’s hands, twisting their fingers together, “She broke my father. When she gave away the information that she did, when she provided the world with... his... misdeeds...”

He looked away, eyes skimming the edge of the meadow, like he’d seen something.

Dean looked behind himself, squinting at the arch they’d come through. “What, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Castiel muttered, pulling Dean’s hand to regain his attention. Dean fixed his eyes on Castiel’s, feeling warmed by his smile.

“Yes, about Kali,” Castiel began again, and Dean sighed. Castiel went on, ignoring Dean’s annoyance. “She broke everything about my father, she broke his will, and his greed. Maybe she wasn’t at her most professional when she did it - take that dinner we had together as an example - but she did what she did well.”

“Which is what?”

Castiel smiled. “She made him give up. And Daphne took over the company. Her taking over, that meant I didn’t have to marry her any more.”

Dean swallowed, nodding downward. “Yeah. But you still tried to marry her.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Castiel said, quietly. “I really am. I was too scared to change the ruts I was in.”

Dean looked up hopefully. “So what exactly happened today? You called the shop, and... to me, it sounded like you and Daphne were both okay with you-and-me.”

Castiel nodded. “She’s fine with it.”

Dean smirked, swaying their joined hands. Then he crouched, picked a pink poppy, and put it into Castiel’s curled fingers. “I told her before you did,” he said.

Castiel’s frown flickered. “Wh...?”

“I told her last night,” Dean said. “Before I went to see you.” He tensed slightly, seeing the frozen way Castiel was looking at him. He attempted to shrug off Castiel’s reaction. “C’mon, I’m trying to do the no-secrets thing. I had to tell her, it was getting too messy.”

“I did wonder why she took it so well, when I told her today,” Castiel muttered.

Dean nodded, cupping Castiel’s jaw with his heat-sticky hand. “Thanks for telling her, Cas,” he whispered.

Castiel kissed Dean’s wrist, and Dean slid his hand down to hold Castiel’s again.

“So about Kali―”

Dean growled, flopping forward in frustration, bumping his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder and almost dislodging his glasses.

Castiel chuckled, ruffling the back of Dean’s hair. He kissed his neck, and Dean slowly straightened up. “All I wanted to say,” Castiel continued, “is that without her doing all that she did, I would never have had the opportunity to bring you here so easily. All I did today was call ahead to tell my father I was inviting over some friends of my own, for the first time in my life. Nice people, safe people. Friends of Benny’s. My father trusts Benny, he always has.”

Dean nodded, waiting for the point. He needed a _resolution_. This felt just as tatty-ended as it did last night, and it would remain that way unless he got what this set-up was leading to.

“I wouldn’t have had...” Castiel lowered his eyes, watching Dean’s mouth, then his chest. Dean felt too hot under his leather jacket all of a sudden. It was coming, it was about to happen.

“I wouldn’t have had this opportunity,” Castiel repeated. “To be with you. Like this, here.”

“Like what?” Dean prompted, hungry for it. He’d never craved anything this badly. “Be with me in what way?”

Castiel let out a soft breath, which almost became a chuckle. He didn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes. “The way...” He swallowed. “I... I saw the end of _Little Shop of Horrors_.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah? Thoughts?”

Castiel licked his lips, smiling. “I liked it. That Seymour doesn’t get killed after all, and they get married and live happily ever after.”

Dean nodded as he added, “Cute house, too.”

“Yes, a house.”

Dean waited.

Castiel gulped, then nodded, finding his words. “Wh- When my father passes on... he means to leave me this house.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“It’s... It’s a big house,” Castiel said, looking up, meeting Dean’s eye. There was a softness in his expression, a gentle unworded begging. “I don’t want to sell it. I don’t want to let someone else have it. But I can’t live in it alone.”

Dean’s heart bloomed bright and colourful in wanting, wanting, wanting. “Uh-huh.”

“So,” Castiel said, mouthing on nothing for a few seconds. “You couldn’t live here all the time, you wouldn’t be able to get into the city for the market in the mornings. But...”

He breathed a little, and Dean stood with bated breath, heart hammering because _Cas just asked him to move him with him_.

“But perhaps,” Castiel went on, “there would be times we could come by here, stay here together. There are―” he gestured at the meadow, “flowers, here. And... they could be grown. And you could... grow them, and sell them... and― Oh, god, I didn’t plan this―” He turned away, then back, not letting go of Dean’s hands. He breathed, fingers twitching, squeezing.

Castiel struggled onwards, “Th- This was meant to be my grand gesture, and it wasn’t meant to be today, it was meant to be months from now. But - but last night, after everything we talked about and everything we did - I realised I was ready, I was ready for this. To ask... you―

“Oh, fuck. I’m - I’m sorry, Dean,” he chuckled, blue eyes shining with disgrace, “this is so terrible.”

“It’s good, you’re doing great,” Dean whispered, encouraging, waiting. “Keep going.”

Castiel licked his lips, eyes flicking to Dean’s, away again, then back. He was blushing, and he was smiling, not so much with his mouth but with his eyes. “Do you know what I’m asking?”

“I’ll know what you’re asking if you ask,” Dean told him. “Just ask.”

Castiel swallowed, re-grasping Dean’s hand for reassurance. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I want to be with you.”

Dean nodded, eyes locked on Castiel’s. “I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.” It was easy to say because it was so _honest_.

Castiel slid a hand up and clutched Dean’s collar. The sun blazed off his white shirt as he leaned in closer, gleaming on the button that held the decorative shoulder flaps. “Dean, I want to be a part of your family. I want to have a place at your table. I want to―”

“Wanna _have_ a family with you,” Dean finished. “Shit, Cas, I want that too.”

Castiel nodded intently. “And I want to be faithful to you, and I want to promise you―”

“Yes,” Dean nodded, frowning as he rested his forehead on Castiel’s. “C’mon, say it.”

“Promise to love you.” Castiel licked his lips, hands pulling and tugging at Dean’s jacket collar, fingers slipping under it to touch the nape of his neck. “And be with you, and never hurt you, and I’ll keep you safe, and―”

“Fuck it, Cas, just _marry_ me,” Dean breathed, too desperate to wait for it to be said.

“Okay,” Castiel laughed, lips on Dean’s, mouthing the word. “ _Yes_ , Dean.” He was shaking under Dean’s hands as he held his waist. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”

Dean nodded, kissing Castiel, firmly and briefly. Their lips hung above each other, and Dean couldn’t breathe for a moment, he was dizzy and lost to everything in the world but the feel of Castiel’s hands around his neck, his body pushed against his, their fast breath.

“Love you,” Dean kissed him again. Oh, he was made of light. An angel. He was the Earth of this glorious, glowing world, and Castiel was his personal god, his sky. All for him.

Castiel made a soft noise and kissed back. “Always, Dean. Promise.”

Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist, holding him tight. He buried his face into Castiel’s shoulder, and he grinned, and he squashed Castiel as hard as he could, and Castiel hugged him back just as tightly.

All of Dean’s wishes were coming true. All of them. This moment was _everything_ to him.

His breath became the hush of a summer breeze through the aromatic meadow for a while, and he and Castiel stood there together, holding onto each other, and they soaked up how this felt. Dean didn’t shed a tear, but he felt like he could have, were it not for the absolute stasis he was in. Time froze for this moment.

Then Castiel sniffed, and Dean chuckled. “I hope that’s a happy sniffle.”

“No,” Castiel said. Pulling himself off Dean’s shoulder. He looked Dean in the eye, and Dean’s stomach chilled at the hard, wide-eyed look Castiel was giving him. “We have company.”

“Isn’t this lovely,” a cold voice said from behind Dean. Dean spun around, tangling his knees in long poppy stems. He saw the man from the limousine approaching, his all-black suit becoming peppered with flower seeds as he waded from the edge of the field towards them.

“Uh, can we help you?” Dean asked, feeling Castiel shift to stand at his side. Something about this man felt... dangerous.

“You can, actually,” the man said, an obvious English accent on his words. He was older than Dean by about a decade, and almost a head shorter. He walked with firm purpose, still twenty feet away from them. “I can see I’m intruding on a private moment, but I don’t particularly care. Nice ranch, Montecarlo,” he added, tipping his head to Castiel.

“It’s _Montmorency_ ,” Castiel snapped.

“You know this guy?” Dean asked Castiel, muttering over his shoulder.

Castiel shot him a quick glance, then spoke up so the man could hear him too; “This is Fergus Crowley. Family limousine driver.”

“Oh, that I am,” Crowley said, sauntering closer, now about ten feet away. “But I’m so much _more_ than that. Driving a limousine is what men like me do when men like _you_ take everything away.”

Dean frowned and looked over at Castiel, who didn’t appear to know what Crowley meant. When Dean looked back at Crowley, he was five feet away, and he held up a gun, barrel pointed straight at them.

“Whoa!” Dean grabbed Castiel and hauled him behind him. “What the hell?!”

“See,” Crowley said, quite calmly, “I ran a bank, once. A nice little establishment, with a vault and everything. Lots of hard cash inside. I think you visited me, on one occasion. Winchester, wasn’t it? Dean... Winchester.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. His throat tightened. This was how it would end: in disaster. His world came down in a single moment, realising who this man was. His voice came out hushed as he said, “You. You’re the one who shot me in the back.”

“Did it leave a scar?” Crowley asked, raising curt eyebrows. “It must have, a nice messy one. Beautiful, this little baby.” He wafted his gun, a slender long-barrelled black pistol. “Antique.”

“Nice,” Dean sneered. “Untraceable, because it’s unregistered, right? Lead bullets. Yeah, I remember.”

Castiel tightened his grip of Dean’s hand, pressing closer to his back. “Dean...”

“Sh, Cas,” Dean hissed.

“After you robbed me,” Crowley went on, sounding almost cheerful, “I lost everything. Insurance companies fucked off, other banks foreclosed on my house, my business went down the crapper. See,” he chuckled, waving the gun at his own head, maddeningly relaxed, “you didn’t just take what was in the vault, did you? You _wrenched_ the - whole - fucking - _system_ \- out!” He bellowed those words, unbelievable fury in his voice. His face seemed to explode with the effort he put into making those words echo around the meadow, bouncing off the sky.

Then he laughed, wrinkles appearing around his eyes. “I tried to kill you back then. And I - ha―! Would you believe it, I failed.”

Crowley’s weapon didn’t waver now; his arm held strong as he pointed his gun at Dean’s head. “Having known you escaped me once, imagine my surprise when I find you’re fraternising with the very man I loathe to serve. Pathetic.”

His head twitched to one side, careless. “Ah. I don’t think I have anything else to explain. Let’s get this over with, shall we? Stand still.” He closed one eye and lined up the pistol.

“Wait!” Castiel pushed himself forward, standing between Dean and the gun.

Crowley paused, but didn’t lower the weapon.

“Cas, don’t―” Dean was hushed by Castiel’s hand raised to his shoulder, instructive.

“You want to kill him?” Castiel asked, his deep voice turned fierce. “I won’t let you.”

Crowley looked at the gun. Then he flicked the hammer at the end of the gun, loading it. “Two bullets, then. Problem solved.”

Castiel panted as Dean grabbed him and tried to throw him down, but Castiel wouldn’t go down. “No, Dean!” he growled. “He won’t hurt you!”

Dean chuckled, hysterical. “You do know how guns work, right?”

Castiel shot him a look of undeniable terror and a manic, _manic_ anger. “I love you.”

Dean’s last intelligible thought was how incredibly sweaty Castiel’s hand was.

In what seemed like both a single second and an eternity, Castiel pounced forward, attempting to bat the gun out of Crowley’s hand. He attacked like a cat, no plan of action ahead of the swatting, the hands held like claws. He couldn’t fight; he took a punch to the jaw and he went down.

But he came up, unfazed - he yowled, grabbed for the gun again.

And then he was wrestling with Crowley, thick black-suited arms slung around the pristine whites Castiel wore, struggling, desperately reaching for the weapon to disarm the other man.

Dean had already bolted forward, needing a way to separate them, but he couldn’t find an opening between the limbs and the gun. The barrel of it was waving about, and Dean’s heart was pounding, and he tried to put his hands on Crowley to haul him away from Castiel, but Castiel’s hands were on the gun―

Dean had no idea who pulled the trigger, because amidst all the slow-motion, a gunshot was too fast. He heard the bang after he felt the strike, and he missed the part where he fell over backwards, because he was already on his back, staring at the sky. Staring at the sun.

Screaming in pain was beyond him. He could already feel his vision blacking.

✿

“DEAN!”

Castiel was empty of anything but pure unadulterated terror. Adrenaline made his vision as sharp as a needle, and he saw a spray of blood flick up from Dean’s body as he fell. Red blood. So red.

He hit Crowley _hard_ in the head with the butt of the gun, knocking him out cold. He tossed the weapon away; it fell into tall flowers, where it rustled and disappeared.

Castiel ran. Oh, he ran. Three steps - it was the longest journey he ever made.

He collapsed at Dean’s side, and he saw the tremor of Dean’s lip, the tiny flicker in his naked eyes. “DEAN!”

He grabbed his heavy body, pulled him into his lap. He heard people’s voices, a scream, a shout―

Dean was bleeding, he was red and he was hot, and everything was wet. Castiel’s clothes soaked through with blood, and he wasn’t functioning beyond the sight before him, seeing Dean dying in his arms.

Shot in the heart.

Castiel’s shaking, red-splattered hand took the lapel of Dean’s leather jacket and pulled it back. It resisted, and something inside it rattled. When Castiel wrenched it off, he saw that metal shards were stuck into Dean’s chest around the bullet hole. Steel, particles of the lockpicking tools Dean had showed him once. Castiel breathed hard, smelling blood. So much blood.

Dean was still breathing.

“Stay with me, Dean. Don’t leave me,” Castiel whispered, a deep, mauled sound under his breath. “Stay with me.”

He started pulling the shards free, one tiny sword after another. He stopped when he felt hands around his own, holding him and pulling him off.

“Don’t,” a voice said. Benny. “Don’t pull it out, it’ll bleed more.”

Sam’s voice joined the chaos, “Careful with his blood - careful! Sarah, don’t get it on you, he’s HIV-positive. Oh, god, Dean - _Dean_ , hang in there, don’t let go, don’t give up, okay―”

Castiel was crying, he could see tears falling onto Dean’s face, smearing the sprayed blood into wet droplets. “Dean...”

Dean’s eyes were open, staring at the sky. He was unresponsive.

Vaguely, in the back of Castiel’s awareness, he heard more shouts, saw more hands, Sarah’s hands, coming close to press Benny’s jacket to the wound. _Keep pressure on it, the ambulance is on its way―_

Castel’s white clothes were covered in blood.

Dean took a breath. His eyes almost met Castiel’s, struggling to move. He almost made it. Then he closed his eyes. And he let the breath go.

“DEAN―”


	28. Butterflies

Castiel walked through the Conservatory of Flowers, his eyes on the tiles under his feet. Even while it rained outside, this place stayed warm, as humid as an Eastern monsoon.

His black suit, black tie, black shirt - they all felt too tight around his neck. A noose. The sensation of human grief made everything feel that way.

The white lily in his hand felt like a dagger.

He kept walking, barely seeing the green plants around him. Coming here had always been a happy occasion. But it was not so this time. This time, he could still smell the staleness of coffin wood on his suit, still had the aura of a funeral about him.

The warmth of this place did nothing to ease him.

He passed stone ponds, barely looking inside to see the turtles or the fish. They had better, far easier lives than he did.

He walked until he stood at the base of a white metal staircase. Its paint was chipped, and in those places, its rust showed through. He could imagine the sound his shoes would make against it if he climbed up; they would clank and make the frame judder. He would follow the spiralling staircase up until he reached the observation alley above it, high above.

He looked up, seeing how far from him it was, and how close to the domed glass ceiling he would have to go.

He was afraid of heights. Without Dean beside him, he would not be brave enough.

Castiel separated his hanging fingers as he felt someone else’s hand slide into his, putting their palms together.

“You doing okay?” Dean asked, looking over.

Castiel pressed a firm smile against his lips, barely catching Dean’s eye before he shook his head. “No.”

Dean squeezed his hand and sighed. “Feel like going up there?” He gestured at the observation alley with their joined hands. “New perspective, maybe?”

Castiel let out a slow breath. “I’ve never been up there.”

“Me neither.” Dean started walking forwards, pulling Castiel with him until they both set one foot on the bottom step. It clunked, and made the frame judder, just the way Castiel thought it would. However, it seemed more sturdy than he had expected.

“Come on,” Dean said, tugging on Castiel’s hand. “We’ll go up together.”

Castiel pushed out a slow breath through tight lips. “Okay,” he whispered. “Don’t let go of my hand.”

Dean chuckled, lifting their hands to kiss the back of Castiel’s. “I won’t. Come on, you chicken.”

He led the way, and Castiel held tight to the railing as they climbed, his white lily growing bruised as he kept sliding it up the rusty railing. He breathed slowly, calmed by the scent of flowers in the greenhouse.

Dean was scared too, but holding Castiel’s hand, they both felt stronger.

Castiel attempted once to hurry, hoping it would be over quicker, but Dean gasped and wrenched his hand to slow him. “Not so fast,” he muttered, wincing. He curled a hand over his heart, grunting in pain. “Some douchebag shot me in the heart, I’m not so good at going fast any more.”

Castiel offered a soft smile. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he asked, jokingly.

Dean grinned, chin to his chest as he kept climbing. “Nope.”

The ground was far, far away by the time they reached the top. A long platform bordered the upper part of the Conservatory, a white metal path all the way around. A barrier kept them from falling, which Dean and Castiel both held tight to, inching their way further along the alley.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Dean laughed, nervously. “Not gonna fall. It’s okay.”

Castiel nodded, reassured.

They made it to the middle part of the observation platform, and they hung onto the railing, looking down over the planters filled with exotic greenery, giant leaves and tall, extraordinary stems, reaching for the glass ceiling.

There were no butterflies in the rafters; the season had passed, and they’d missed them. Next year, perhaps. They had something to look forward to.

Behind them, raindrops scattered on the glass panes, early November lending the city its tears for the sake of today’s funeral. Despite the cool rain, it was so hot up here, stifling.

Castiel let go of Dean’s hand for a moment to loosen his tie, slinging the black knot to his sternum. Dean watched him, leaning over the barrier on his elbows, hands clasped together.

“It’ll get easier,” Dean said, quietly. “You’ll miss him at first, and it’ll kill you, but... Heh. Honest-to-god, it gets easier.”

He let out a soft breath, and the found words to continue, “You’ll stop expecting to see him every time you go back home. You’ll stop hurting when you breathe in something that smells like the cigars he smoked. But you won’t forget him. You’ll... you’ll think of him every so often. You’ll wonder what it would be like if he was still here.”

“Do you still miss your father?” Castiel asked, leaning close to Dean, pressing their bodies together as they watched other visitors to the Conservatory wander between paths.

Dean pressed his lips together, looking down. “I think so. I’m not really sure. I feel like I do. But if I actually try to think of something I liked about him, I can’t do it.” He shrugged, letting Castiel split his fingers to hold onto him. “I think I loved him because he was family. Not because of anything else.”

Castiel nodded, resting his cheek on Dean’s shoulder. “These... past months...”

Dean huffed a bare smile. “Been good. Your dad was happy, at least.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s rough-fabriced black suit. “Yeah.” His eyes wandered to the golden ring that was set on Dean’s left hand. He smiled. “I’ve been happy too.”

Dean spread his fingers, not quite letting go of Castiel’s hand, but showing off the ring. “Pretty nice bling, huh?”

Castiel laughed, despite himself. He slowly met Dean’s gaze, pleased to see the playful twinkle in his eye, spectacular from up close.

His eyes had more green in them than everything in this Conservatory. Equal to his love of how Dean’s hands held him, Castiel’s favourite thing about Dean was the way he looked at him. Those eyes were beautiful. They showed the state of his heart. Weakened and frail, desperately injured, but still strong, and still loving.

Dean had held onto his heart like it was the most important thing could ever do. And Castiel had never been more grateful for anything than he was for the exertion that Dean used to hold on.

The helicopter had rushed them to hospital, and Dean made it through his emergency operation, to the utter relief of his collective family, all of whom waited with prayers, pacing feet, and clasped hands, incomparably anxious for him to pull through.

He’d needed multiple blood transfusions, because he’d lost so much of his own blood. Finding there was no suitable donor available immediately, Castiel had offered everything he had. And so, for almost two days, he’d lain in an adjacent hospital bed, donating blood by the pint so Dean could get better. It was diseased blood, a donation the hospital would never have allowed usually, but Sarah worked some kind of magic to let it happen. Castiel’s heart had beat for both of them.

Castiel confided to his father afterwards that helping Dean that way was the most meaningful thing he’d ever done in his life. His father had asked, what about the time his blood had saved _him_? Castiel had smiled, then, and began to tell the truth.

Eventually, once he’d finished talking, his father told him he’d done well; praised him. It went down as a good moment for them both.

The first time Dean woke up in his hospital bed, delirious on medication, he had spoken to Sam and Castiel together. _If I lost my heart, I’d lose both of you._ He’d held on for them.

Bravery, Benny had called it. Dean had laughed, coughed, then passed out. But Sam and Castiel had agreed.

Their friends had filled Dean’s hospital room with flowers: every kind of blossom or bloom they could get their hands on. They’d practically bought the San Francisco market out, that day.

Castiel arranged them himself while Dean had slept. The birds-of-paradise had all been placed right beside Dean’s bed.

Things had been bumpy from then on, once Dean recovered enough to return to his life on shaky legs.

Wrongs had been in need of righting, bends and kinks in their lives had needed to be straightened out. Castiel had made his official apologies to Daphne, and discovered then that she’d found something worth a hundredfold of what Castiel ever gave her, this time in a mutual friend, Benny. Castiel offered his heartfelt blessings, and felt forgiven under both their eyes for his infidelity.

Weeks had pushed onward, and with Castiel’s more-than-decent knowledge of business, combined with Dean’s and Charlie’s, they had together merged P. Lush Plushies and Cupid’s Bow into something far more accessible in the eye of the previously disinterested public.

The wall between the shops had a doorway knocked into it, a new sign was hung over the street, and that had been all it took to transform the place into a gift boutique. Flowers and postcards sat on one side of a curtain, plush toys and packaged candy on the other. They even had their own courier-service-slash-singing-telegram (Gabriel on a bicycle). It was touristy and gimicky, maybe - they all thought so, even Gabriel, who took the liberty of employing himself and knocking down the wall in the first place - but each of the shops retained their singular charms.

Castiel had started a charity in his mother’s name, and Dean went on selling flowers. Despite his aches and his fatigue, Dean fought through the pain. He catered six weddings before the summer was over, and, once, amidst kisses and soft smiles, he confessed to Castiel that he’d never had a better few months in his life.

As the weather had turned greyer, shattered with occasional rainstorms, Heaven-Scent-A-Gift Emporium was their rock. The child of their extended family, perhaps. Shelter.

The apartment above the shop was their home, in ways that were meant to be temporary, but never really were, not when Castiel accidentally ended up sleeping in Dean’s bed every other night. The cats shared, sometimes. Dean pretended not to notice the rashes and the puffy eyes, because he couldn’t say no to Honeybee, not when those soulful blue eyes looked at him like _that_. Or, so he complained to Castiel.

But it wasn’t going to last. Dean was clear that he had no intention to run his shop forever, especially when the business began to boom. He couldn’t keep up with it, and every day he and Castiel entertained silent worries of growing old and having nothing to show for it but scars and certificates.

They needed new experiences, and the time to gain such things seemed to be running out.

“Actually,” Dean said, kissing Castiel’s cheek, fiddling with the lily he held, “I have something for you.”

Castiel’s pulse leapt into his throat. He stroked Dean’s engagement ring with a finger, meeting Dean’s eye once more, this time with a brilliant and simmering anticipation.

Dean grinned at him, sensing his wordless excitement. “Don’t get too worked up, it’s not amazing, or anything.”

Castiel shook his head, waiting. Rain splashed another wave against the Conservatory glass, but the sound did not distract him from whatever Dean meant to offer.

Dean sighed, realising he wasn’t getting any more time to delay. “All right.” He let go of Castiel’s hand, and stood up straight, feet firm on the sturdy grill below them. Castiel held the crook of his elbow, making sure he didn’t wobble while he reached into his breast pocket.

As he held Dean, he saw the silver engagement ring on his own finger, and smiled. Every time he noticed it, he felt joy. It felt bright, tender and bold, like Dean.

Dean made a soft sound as he pulled a small papery packet from his suit. He flapped it against a hand, then looked up to meet Castiel’s eye. “I, uh...” He nibbled his lower lip, adjusted his glasses, then handed over the packet. “Take a look.”

Castiel valiantly let go of the metal barrier to take the packet. It had a cat chasing a bee drawn on it. The paper crinkled under his hand, and was still warm from Dean’s body. Castiel slowly unfolded it, pinching whatever was inside, then slowly pulled it out.

Dean cleared his throat, quiet until Castiel had turned around the glossy papers to see what was printed on them.

“It’s not much,” Dean muttered, as Castiel read what was on the papers.

They were receipts, proof of purchase for two sets of train tickets to lots of places, roughly in a line all the way across the country. The final destination was Niagara Falls, booked a month in advance. The date on them read a couple of weeks after Christmas.

Castiel pulled in a hot breath and looked up to see Dean’s smile.

“I figured neither of us wanted to fly,” Dean licked his lips, “so...”

Castiel stepped forward and threw his arms around Dean. Dean grunted, and Castiel whispered an apology, knowing it hurt Dean when he squeezed his chest too tightly. He kissed Dean’s neck, so thankful.

“Is... that a yes?” Dean asked, ducking his head away from Castiel to look him in the eye.

Castiel smiled, nodding. “Right after the wedding.”

Dean tipped his head. “So...”

Castiel blanched, looking back to the tickets. “ _Right_ after the wedding! For the honeymoon?”

Dean shrugged, beaming as he drew Castiel back into an embrace, this time with their hips together, arms slung to grip Castiel’s lower back. “It’s gonna be fucking freezing around that time. I figure it might be nice to go up there, find a hotel room someplace, and just―”

“Spend a week in bed keeping warm,” Castiel finished.

Dean smirked. “With a bonus view outside. We’d have Sam and Sarah look after the cats, have Charlie and Gabriel take care of the gift shop, Missouri take care of Angel Benefits, Benny take care of San Fran... and we just disappear for a bit. You, me, and nothing else.”

Castiel chuckled, leaning in to put his lips on Dean’s. Dean sighed into him, rocking them gently from foot to foot. “Mm,” Castiel murmured, briefly breaking the kiss to rest his lips on Dean’s lower lip, biting him once. “Yes.” He kissed again, then nodded. “Yes, I like that plan.”

“First trip of many,” Dean added. “Next time, it’s the Grand Canyon.”

“Ah, it’s the Seven Wonders of the World you want to see,” Castiel muttered, feeling very satisfied to be held in Dean’s arms.

Dean shook his head. “Screw seven. I want to see _every_ wonder of the world. But I’m not exactly a fan of planes. We’ll start small.”

“Mm, I like it.”

Dean grinned, rolling their lips into another gentle, sweeping kiss. “But you know,” he said, nosing Castiel’s cheek, nuzzling until Castiel laughed, “I’ve got my own little wonder, right here.”

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel whispered against Dean’s jaw.

Dean smiled as he kissed Castiel on the lips, Castiel felt the curve of his mouth and heard the soft, pleasant sound that lifted on Dean’s breath. “Exactly.”

They held tight to each other, swaying, almost slow-dancing together in the warmth of the greenhouse. Castiel’s white lily left a smear of pollen on Dean’s suit, but neither of them noticed, nor cared. All that mattered was that they were together, and both their hearts beat strong.

When they shared moments like these, connected and bursting with affection, something blossomed between them. They had grown from separate vines, but when they produced one single budding bloom, nothing else about their burdened pasts interfered. Things would come back to haunt them sometimes, but they would move forward. They grew.

They would _keep_ growing. Each of them were parts of the same puzzles: never-ending, without edges. And the most important thing was that they grew together.

Some flowers, if treated right, would never, ever wilt.

✿

THE END

✿

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you downloaded this, please come back and leave kudos or a comment (or both!). When I get feedback, it makes all the difference between having finished a story, and actually being proud of writing it. c:
> 
> See my [author's notes](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/24941.html) (scroll down) for a short recount of how this fic came to be, as well as acknowledgements for the wonderful people who helped make it possible.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://almaasi.tumblr.com)!
> 
>  
> 
> ~Soundtrack coming soon~


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